THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


HITHERTO: 


OIF       IT  IE  S  T  IE  IK,  D  .A. -5T  S  . 


MRS.  A.  D.  T.  WHITNEY, 

AUTHOR  OF  "FAITH  GARTNEY'S  GIRLHOOD,"  "THE    GAYWORTHYS,"    "PATIENCE 
STRONG'S  OUTINGS,"  "BOYS  AT  CHEQUASSET,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


,    IPublislier, 

319    WASHINGTON    STREET, 
BOSTON. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1869,  by 

MRS.  A.  D.  T.  WHITNEY, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


Rockwell  &  Churchill,  Printers  nr.d  Stereotype™, 
112  Washington  Street. 


PS 


HITHERTO. 


CHAPTER  I. 

WHAT  ANSTISS   DOLBEARE   REMEMBERS. 
PROSE. 

"  TO-DAY"  is  a  strange  word.  The  point  a  life  has  got  to, 
be3^ond  which  it  must  pierce  the  dark ;  behind  which  lies  its 
own  trail  of  light,  born  of  its  own  movement,  and  showing 
—  always  behind  —  what  it  has  truly  meant  and  been. 

The  point  the  world  has  got  to ;  where  the  blaze  and  the 
mist,  the  dazzle  and  confusion,  are  about  it,  that  come  of  its 
greater  rush,  like  the  burst  of  a  meteor  heading  across  the 
skies. 

In  the  blaze  and  mist  of  this  "to-day,"  things  are  seen  false 
and  distorted.  People  are  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  tell  of  to- 
day ;  they  ought  to  wait,  in  some  things,  till  it  has  become 
yesterday.  , 

I  think  it  would  be  a  good  thing  if  some  old  woman  were 
to  tell  a  story,  —  if  anybody,  that  is,  young  or  old,  could  ever 
really  tell  a  whole  one.  This  is  a  thing  which  it  is  not  possi- 
ble truly  to  do.  Stories  in  this  world  tell  themselves  by 
halves.  There  is  always  a  silent  side  ;  many  silent  sides,  per- 
haps ;  for  lives  run  on  together,  overlap  and  interlace,  and 
none  can  tell  the  life  of  another.  That  is  one  thing  we  find 
out  as  our  to-days  turn  into  yesterdays.  Finding  it  out,  we 
grow  wiser  concerning  ourselves. 

Therefore,  and  for  other  reasons,  I  believe  it  would  be  good 

3 


4  HITHERTO : 

for  some  old  woman,  in  such  fashion  as  she  could*  to  tell  a 
story ;  and  that  it  is  time  it  were  done.  Women,  and  men 
too,  are  so  apt  to  cry  out  when  the  first  stress  of  their  life  is 
upon  them ;  to  give  their  raw  pain  and  passion  utterance. 
The  world  is  full  of  such  outpourings. 

What  can  a  girl  of  twenty  know,  that  she  should  try  to  say 
what  disappointment  and  endurance  are,  and  what  they  come 
to ;  that  she  should  scribble  of  the  deep,  inner  things,  the 
soul-instincts  and  affinities,  and  the  God-leadings,  and  the 
ends  ?  Let  her  put  her  hand  in  His,  and  be  led,  for  years  and 
years ;  and  then  let  her,  if  she  can  and  dare,  look  back  upon 
those  yesterdays  and  speak.  I  think  the  world  would  hear  a 
riper  and  a  different  story.  I  think  it  would  truly  get  a  novel 
then. 

I  could  not  write  a  romance  if  I  would.  All  my  life  long 
I  have  been  living  prose  ;  like  the  bourgeois  gentilhomme,  not 
knowing  either  what  a  grand  thing  that  was. 

I  meant  poetry.  I  longed  and  yearned  for  it.  I  tried  to 
shape  and  measure  the  weary  lines  ;  I  could  never  make  them 
stately,  or  pure  musical.  They  were  full  of  ands  and  buts, 
and  long,  dry  sentences  of  common  words. 

I  learned  at  last  to  read  them  patiently,  and  so  God's  mean- 
ing came,  which  glorified  them. 

If  there  were  any  glimpse  of  poetry  in  my  early  childhood, 
it  all  lay  between  the  back  door-step  and  the  head  of  the  Long 
Lane. 

I  used  to  get  out  there  when  the  dishes  were  wiped  up,  or 
the  seam  was  sewn  ;  perhaps  in  the  still  of  a  starlit  evening 
when  nobody  knew  where  I  was.  I  felt  then,  in  the  magnify- 
ing gloom,  as  if  I  had  got  away  into  the  wide  world.  The 
world?  Among  the  worlds. 

I  used  to  wish  they  would  just  let  me  be  little  in  peace.  It 
was  always,  "  You  are  too  big  a  girl,  Anstiss,  for  that ; " 
"  You  are  too  old  not  to  know  how  to  do  this."  It  began  before 
I  was  seven ;  I  used  to  think  I  must  have  been  born  too  big 
and  too  old. 

By  "  they"  I  mean,  especially,  Aunt  Ildy.  We  always  do, 
I  think,  instinctively  individualize,  somehow,  that  third  person 
plural. 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  5 

I  never  knew  the  whole  of  Aunt  Ildy's  name.  I  believe  she 
was  secretly  ashamed  of  it  herself.  If  she  had  not  been,  she 
would  never  have  allowed  herself  to  be  called  as  she  was,  for 
she  despised  nicknames.  She  scrupulously  gave  me  the  hard 
whole  of  mine.  It  would  have  put  a  different  complexion  upon 
days  and  weeks,  if  once  in  a  while  in  them,  perhaps  on  a 
holiday  afternoon,  she  would  have  said  "  Annie."  When  I 
was  very  bad,  she  called  me  "  Anstiss  DoZ-beare  !  "  I  have 
wondered  whether  hers  might  have  been  Ildegonde,  or  Hilde- 
garde  ;  or  if  people,  indeed,  ever  got  stories  from  the  German 
as  long  ago  as  she  was  born.  Her  other  name  was  appropri- 
ate enough.  "  Miss  Chism "  snapped  you  up  in  the  very 
speaking.  Somehow,  you  could  not  waste  words  with  a 
woman  of  that  name.  She  would  not  have  let  you,  be  assured. 
She  never  let  anybody  waste  anything  ;  time,  or  bread-crumbs, 
or  feelings.  I  learned  that  young  enough. 

I  remember  a  morning  when  I  sat  down  on  the  back  door- 
step with  a  damp  dish-towel  across  my  lap  which  I  was  to  have 
spread  upon  a  gooseberry  bush.  I  sat  listening  to  the  grass- 
hoppers close  by,  —  for  it  was  still  in  the  lane,  —  and  now  and 
then  to  a  far-off  sound  of  music,  or  of  guns.  Listening  also, 
as  I  always  was,  mechanically  and  with  a  dread,  for  the  sharp 
call  that  was  sure  to  come  after  me. 

"  Anstiss  !  " 

"O  aunt!"  I  cried,  remonstrating  for  once;  "it's  the 
Fourth  of  July ! " 

"  Well,  the  world's  got  to  keep  turning  round,  if  'tis ;  or 
else  it'll  never  be  the  fifth  !  " 

That  was  all  it  seemed  to  amount  to  with  her.  That  dishes 
should  be  washed  after  the  beds  were  made ;  that  dinner 
should  be  got  after  the  house  was  swept ;  that  the  ironing 
should  be  done  after  the  washing,  and  the  mending  after  the 
ironing ;  that  the  fifth  of  July  should  come  after  the  fourth ; 
that  things  should  just  keep  turning,  whether  anything  turned 
out  or  not.  I  used  to  wish  there  would  be  a  fire  or  an  earth- 
quake ;  anything  that  would  joggle  Aunt  Ildy,  and  so  shake 
up  the  dreary  order  of  affairs  that  they  might  perchance  settle 
back  into  relations  a  little  different.  I  should  have  liked  to 


6  JIITIJERTO  : 

hear  " puss  in  the  corner!"  cried  somehow  into  my  life,  and 
to  have  seen  what  would  have  come  of  that. 

What  really  was  unusual  in  my  lot,  —  what  would  have  been 
at  least  pathetic  with  any  other,  —  seemed  to  me  the  most  pro- 
saic and  commonplace  of  all.  I  was  an  orphan,  and  so  I  lived 
with  Uncle  Royle,  and  Aunt  Ildy  "took  charge"  of  me.  To 
have  had  a  father  and  a  mother  and  a  home,  —  that  would  have 
been  the  really  poetical  thing. 

The  Edgells  lived  over  the  Avay ;  across  the  lane,  that  is, 
the  garden  gates  being  opposite.  Their  house  fronted  on  Mid- 
dle Street,  as  ours  on  River  Street.  Main  Street  cut  straight 
across  both  at  the  end  of  the  lane,  running  up  the  hill  from 
the  waterside  to  the  Old  Meeting-house.  Main  Street  and 
River  Street  had  sidewalks  and  shops ;  Middle  Street  was 
shady  and  quiet,  with  nice  dwellings  and  white-fenced  front 
yards,  and  brown  gravelled  footways  under  the  trees.  Uncle 
Royle  might  have  had  a  house  on  Middle  Street  if  lie  had 
chosen,  or  even  at  South  Side,  across  the  river,  where  a  few  fine 
country  seats  had  made  the  beginning  of  an  aristocratic  neigh- 
borhood ;  for  he  was  well-to-do ;  but  he  chose  to  "  keep  his 
store,"  and  be  still  better-to-do  ;  also  he  had  been  for  3'ears 
the  New  Oxford  postmaster ;  so  we  lived  on  above  and  behind 
the  shop,  where  Aunt  Ildy  and  he  had  been  brought  up.  Un- 
cle Royle  had  been  married,  and  his  wife  had  died  early. 
Perhaps  "Miss  Chism"  (her  name  sounded  so  like  scissors 
with  its  snnpping  dentals,  and  she  seemed  so  constitutionally 
given  to  cutting  short  whatever  was  most  comfortably  going 
on  about  her,  that  from  the  time  I  first  got  hold  of  an  old 
mythological  chart  and  peopled  my  hungry  fancy  from  it,  I 
nlwaj's  associated  her  with  Atropos)  may  partly  have  ac- 
counted to  my  mind  for  that. 

I,  too,  was  born  here  ;  for  my  mother  came  home,  a  widow, 
to  have  me,  and  to  leave  me,  as  soon  as  I  was  "  too  big  a 
girl "  to  cry  of  nights,  or  to  touch  what  I  was  told  to  let  alone. 

So  it  began  with  prose  for  me,  inevitably  ;  here  in  the  most 
everyday  part  of  an  everyday  inland  town,  neither  country 
nor  city,  among  people  neither  big  nor  little. 

I  was  thinking  of  the  Edgells.     Why  could  not  things  have 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  7 

been  with  me  as  with  them  ?  They  had  each  other,  beside  all 
the  rest,  and  that  was  a  romance  in  itself.  I  had  nothing  and 
no  one. 

Margaret  was  pretty.  When  we  played  "  Pretty  Margaret," 
at  school,  she  was  always  the  one  to  be  first  "  shut  up  in  her 
tower ; "  that  used  to  seem  so  grand  and  beautiful  to  me ! 
And  Julia,  —  what  was  it  in  her  that  so  fascinated  me?  I 
could  not  give  it  a  name  then  ;  I  think  now  it  was  a  certain 
freshness,  spring,  and  aplomb  in  her  whole  nature  that  made 
everything  charming  which  she  did,  whether  it  were  jumping 
the  rope,  reciting  a  lesson,  climbing  a  tree,  singing  a  song,  or 
even  ciphering  upon  a  slate. 

I  used  to  play  with  these  girls  in  recess,  and  walk  home 
with  them  after  school.  I  used  to  "  make-believe"  that  I  was 
their  third  sister,  and  that  I  only  had  an  errand  in  at  "  Miss 
Chism's"  when  we  parted  at  our  garden  gates.  I  had  to 
"  pretend  very  hard  "  about  many  things. 

Everthing  seemed  to  fall  in  easily  for  the  Edgells  ;  for  me, 
everything  took  a  good  deal  of  helping  out.  In  the  first 
place,  they  had  green  morocco  shoes.  I  thought  I  could 
have  been  good  and  pretty  in  green  morocco  shoes  ;  but  mine 
were  always  of  common  black  calfskin.  "When  they  wore  out 
and  I  begged  for  green  ones,  it  was  never  worth  while,  or  un- 
cle wasn't  going  to  the  city,  and  my  toes  were  out,  and  I 
couldn't  wait.  "  One  of  these  days,"  he  said.  Aunt  Ildy 
"  poh"-ed,  and  told  me  not  to  take  notions. 

Years  before,  when  India-rubber  shoes  first  came  in  use,  I 
remember  they  had  such  nice  ones,  so  prettily  stamped  on  the 
toes,  and  run  so  evenly  at  the  heels,  and  turning  down  so  neatly 
and  comfortably  for  the  foot  to  slip  in !  Uncle  bought  me  u. 
pair  when  I  asked  him ;  but  they  were  unfinished,  plain,  un- 
equal things,  with  a  thick  and  a  thin  side  ;  if  I  tried  to  turn 
them  they  twisted  upside-down.  Nobody  can  guess  the  pain 
and  the  unsatisfaction  and  the  disappointment  I  suffered  over 
those  India-rubber  shoes.  Why  must  things  be  always  rough 
and  awkward  for  me? 

Then  somebody  gave  the  Edgells  pretty  basket-satchels.  It 
was  a  pleasure  to  put  one's  books  and  luncheon  in  them. 


g  HITHERTO : 

Aunt  Ilcly  said  it  was  all  nonsense ;  children  didn't  have  so 
many  things  in  her  day  ;  and  I  carried  my  calico  one,  in  which 
the  books  and  biscuits  all  tumbled  down  together  into  the  low- 
est corner.  I  suppose,  in  her  day,  if  she  had  only  thought  of 
it,  the  calico  satchel  was  the  last  new  thing.  Silly  trifles  these 
were,  of  course,  such  as  only  a  child  could  fret  about ;  but  the 
beauty  of  life  is  something  to  a  child  also.  It  was  in  these 
things,  then,  that  I  longed  for  poetry  and  lived  prose. 

The  Eclgells  used  to  sit  at  their  chamber  window  ;  this  was 
cut  low,  with  a  broad  sill,  on  a  level  with  their  laps  ;  and  here 
they  dressed  their  dolls.  I  had  no  chamber  of  my  own,  to  be- 
gin with.  I  slept  with  Aunt  Ildy  ;  for  "  where  was  the  use  of 
making  up  so  many  beds?"  And  our  window-sills  were  up  to 
my  shoulders  when  I  sat  down,  and  only  wide  enough  for  a 
spool  of  cotton  to  stand  on.  J[  used  to  pull  out  a  green  trunk 
from  under  the  bureau,  and  perch  my  chair  on  that  and  climb 
up,  since  I  could  not  bring  the  window  down  ;  and  I  would 
put  my  doll  in  the  corner,  and  fold  the  shutter  against  her  to 
hold  her  up,  and  sew  my  seam  or  hem  my  towel,  and  make 
believe  it  was  a  gown  for  her.  Yes,  the  Eclgells  had  everything 
real  and  easy.  I  had  to  pretend  hard,  and  make  things  do. 

Once,  as  if  all  were  not  enough,  these  girls  had  a  cousin 
come  to  stay  with  them.  I  knew  nothing  of  cousins,  except 
in  story-books.  I  had  run  off  up  the  lane  when  the  tea-things 
were  put  away,  and  met  them  at  the  head.  I  think  Aunt  lldy 
winked  in  a  grim  wa}^  at  this  escape  of  mine  in  "  blind-man's 
holiday  "  time,  when  she  would  not,  by  any  means,  have  openly 
allowed  it.  This  never  occurred  to  me,  however,  when  I  might 
have  taken  my  comfort  in  it.  I  was  in  my  dark  calico  that  I 
had  worn  all  the  week.  One  gown  and  two  aprons,  these  were 
my  seven  days'  allowance ;  a  change,  and  one  for  best ;  if  I 
spilled  or  tore,  I  went  to  bed.  The  Edgells  had  on  light  French 
prints, —  those  pretty,  old-fashioned,  white-grounded  ones,  with 
little  sprays  and  dots  and  flowers  running  all  over  them,  that 
somehow  gave  one  a  pleasant,  delicate  taste  in  the  mouth,  or 
a  sense  of  fragrance,  to  see  ;  and  they  had  their  hair  freshly 
brushed  and  fastened  back  with  round  springs  bound  with 
black  velvet. 


A    STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  9 

"You  take  one  corner,  Jue,"  said  Margaret,  "  and  I'll  take 
the  other,  and  we'll  watch  which  way  the  stage  will  come." 

Jue  ran  up  to  Middle  and  Main,  and  Margaret  down  to  Main 
and  River.  For  me,  I  stood  at  the  lane-head,  pretending  it 
was  some  of  my  business  also,  and  that  I  was  watching  —  where 
no  coach  ever  came.  It  was  still  and  pleasant  in  the  twilight, 
and  there  was  nothing  strange  in  our  being  out  there  so,  bare- 
headed. jPdople  used  to  do  differently  then  from  now ;  and 
ours  was  not  a  bustling  town.  We  were  all  neighbors. 

The  Copes,  from  South  Side,  went  by  in  their  open  carriage. 
They  nodded  pleasantly  to  Julia  and  Margaret,  and  Allie 
Cope  smiled  at  me.  There  had  been  a  dancing-school  at  the 
hall  the  last  winter,  and  Allie  Cope  used  to  dance  with  me 
sometimes.  I  had  a  drab-colored  silk  dress  —  it  had  been  Aunt 
Ildy's  once  —  with  swan's  down  round  the  neck  and  sleeves, 
which  I  wore  then.  It  made  me  look  dull  and  sallow,  for  there 
was  no  contrast.  It  was  nearly  the  shade  of  my  hair.  My 
eyes  were  dark  blue,  and  had  dark  lashes,  notwithstanding  my 
pule  locks  ;  but  for  these  I  should  have  been  an  ugly  child  ;  as  it 
was,  I  believed  myself  to  be  so,  which  answered  every  purpose. 
I  never  thought  of  its  being  partly  the  drab  dress  ;  if  I  had,  it 
would  have  made  no  difference ;  becomingness  did  not  enter 
into  Aunt  Ildy's  articles  of  faith  concerning  dress.  If  a  thing 
was  good  and  tidy,  it  had  to  be  becoming  ;  handsome  was  that 
handsome  did.  Calicoes  that  were  well  covered,  and  would 
wash  ;  silk  that  would  wear  and  turn  ;  above  all,  things  that 
were  "  in  the  house ; "  these  were  not  to  be  superseded  or 
disputed. 

Margaret  and  Julia  did  not  watch  stead ily  at  their  corners  ; 
they  skipped  up  and  down  the  sidewalk,  back  and  forth  to 
me ;  and  by  and  by  the  stage  came  rumbling  across  Main 
Street,  when  we  were  none  of  us  looking  for  it.  Then  we  all 
ran  down  the  lane,  the  shorter  way,  for  it  was  no  use  running 
after.  The  Edgells  flew  in  at  their  garden-gate,  and  it  slammed 
back  in  my  face.  I  lingered  awhile  in  the  faint  hope  that  they 
and  the  cousin  might  come  out ;  but  I  heard  the  tinkle  of 
china  through  the  open  window  of  the  dining-parlor,  and  I 
knew  they  were  giving  her  her  lea  ;  so  I  remembered  that  I 


10  HITHERTO: 

had  an  errand  in  at  Miss  Chism's.     In  fact,  Lucretia  called 
out  to  me  from  the  kitchen  door :  — 

"  Y'raunt's  looking  for  ye,  Anstiss  !     Be  spry  !  " 

I  do  not  know  which  rasped  roughest  on  my  nerves,  Aunt 
Ildy's  direct  and  summary  orders,  or  Lucretia's  citation  of 
"  Y'raunt  : " 

Lucretia  was  a  good  soul  too.  Indeed,  I  ought  not  to  let 
this  early  life  of  mine,  now  that  I  have  learned  better  of  its 
meanings  and  of  what  came  after,  return  upon  my  thought 
with  only  hard  and  sordid  seeming,  through  calling  up  the 
worst  of  it.  It  was  not  hard  and  sordid.  It  was  only  plain 
and  very  dull  for  me,  since  I  was  a  child  full  of  all  keen  possi- 
bilities for  doing  and  enjoying,  and  for  missing  too. 

We  were  quiet,  staid,  respectable  people  ;  the  Chisms  had 
always  been  that  in  New  Oxford,  and  we  lived  in  a  comfort- 
able, old-fashioned,  industrious  way.  Royle  Chism  —  it  had 
been  Royal  Chisholm  once,  three  or  four  generations  ago, 
and  we  were  of  good  stock  in  the  old  land  —  was  looked  up  to 
by  his  townspeople,  and  had  responsibilities  laid  upon  him. 
He  had  been  sent  year  after  year  to  the  General  Court ;  he  had 
been  postmaster  through  ups  and  downs  of  party ;  his  busi- 
ness of  bookseller  brought  him  into  relation  with  all ;  the  best 
people,  and  kept  him  au  fait  to  the  thought  and  progress  of 
the  day.  Over  his  counter,  all  questions,  political,  religious 
and  local,  were  discussed  ;  it  was  this  life,  more  than  the 
money  gain  of  it,  that  kept  him  to  his  trade. 

As  to  social  position,  that  thing  of  interminable  and  inex- 
tricable shades  in  New  England,  we  came  in  close  after  the 
professionals.  We  could  claim  civility,  at  least,  from  all ;  our 
modest  living  was  as  good  and  as  dignified  as  most ;  every- 
body did  not  then  drive  their  barouches,  and  wear  their  jewels, 
and  set  out  their  plate,  and  visit  fifteen  miles  about ;  there 
was  s.till  an  old-school  order  to  which  such  as  we  made  no  pre- 
tence, and  against  which  we  had  no  soreness.  There  were 
Limes  and  places  when  South  Side  and  the  town  came  together 
with  a  mutual  courtesy  ;  in  the  intervals,  each  had  its  own 
fashions  and  its  own  proper  and  distinctive  considerations. 
Solomon  Edgell,  our  neighbor,  was  the  leading  lawyer  of 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  11 

the  place.  Pie  had  gone  as  senator  from  our  district  to  the 
General  Court,  when  Uncle  Royle  was  a  representative.  They 
were  good  friends.  I  played  at  school  and  in  the  lane,  as  I 
have  said,  with  his  daughters.  On  rare  and  radiant  after- 
noons I  drank  tea  with  them,  and  sat  in  the  low  window-seat 
and  looked  across  in  a  sort  of  temporary  triumph  at  an  imag- 
inary double  of  myself  behind  Aunt  Ildy's  shutter.  The 
Edgells,  in  their  turn,  were  sent  for  sometimes  to  South  Side, 
and  drank  tea  with  the  Copes. 

Outside  the  town,  all  up  and  down  the  river,  lay  the  beau- 
tiful farming  region.  Wagons  drove  into  the  streets  and 
down  to  the  water  edge,  twice  and  thrice  a  week,  bringing 
country  produce  to  the  freight-boats  that  plied  back  and  forth 
along  this  artery  that  took  up  and  distributed  the  nourish- 
ment of  a  great  countiy-side,  of  which  a  growing  city,  twenty- 
five  miles  away,  was  like  the  pulsing  heart. 

Every  Saturday  the  wagon  from  Hathaway  Farm  came,  and 
stopped  on  its  way  at  our  door.  There  was  the  weekly  paper 
and  perhaps  a  letter  at  the  office,  —  these  were  to  be  inquired 
for  ;  and  there  was  our  butter,  which  we  always  had  of  Mrs. 
Hathaway,  and  very  likely  some  fruit  or  other  kindly  sending, 
—  at  least  a  message  to  Aunt  Ilcly.  Mrs.  Hathaway  and  she 
were  old  schoolmates  and  friends,  in  a  one-sided  sort  of  way, 
like  sunshine  and  cliff.  Kindly  Mrs.  Hathaway  was  content 
to  do  the  shining ;  upon  my  aunt's  side  there  was  grim  con- 
stancy and  reflective  capability.  It  always  seems  as  if  such 
persons  did  more  in  taking  than  the  readier  souls  in  giving. 
Possibly,  measuring  by  strain  of  nature,  it  is  counted  so. 
Certainly,  my  aunt  would  accept  kind  offices  from  few. 

It  is  plain  I  could  not  write  that  novel  if  I  would.  I  have 
gone  wandering  into  all  these  things  from  just  remembering 
how  Lucretia  called  me  in  that  night  out  of  the  lane. 

I  saw  the  cousin  afterward,  many  times.  She  came  into 
my  life  as  an  influence.  I  know  now  what  it  was  ;  she  was 
picturesque.  What  I  had  seen  a  little  of  in  Julia  Edgell,  I 
saw  with  tenfold  largeness  and  lustre  in  her.  Everything  she 
wore  had  an  effect ;  everything  she  did  was  in  relief  against 
the  common  background  of  others'  unnoticed  doings ;  things 


12  HITHERTO: 

happened  to  her  as  nobody  else  need  expect  they  should  hap- 
pen to  them.  She  always  made  me  feel  as  if  she  were  living 
in  a  story.  If  I  had  had  any  dramatic  knowledge  then,  I  should 
have  said  to  myself  that  she  was  always  upon  the  stage. 

She  was  in  mourning,  to  begin  with ;  that,  to  my  quick  im- 
agination, set  her  apart  in  a  sanctity  and  dignity  at  once  ;  if 
she  smiled  or  spoke,  it  was  as  if  out  of  some  holy  gloom  she 
had  condescended.  The  crape  and  the  bombazine  were  a  real 
majesty  of  sorrow,  —  a  cloud  into  which  no  common  experience 
could  withdraw.  The  black  merino  shawl  she  loved  to  wear, 
contrasting  about  her  white  neck  and  beneath  her  rounded 
and  imprinted  chin,  and  falling  in  soft  lines  over  her  figure  ; 
the  long  veil  that  made  her  face  so  fair  and  sweet,  —  these 
were,  to  my  child's  fancy,  the  very  poetry  of  bereavement ; 
there  seemed  such  a  grandeur  and  solemn  distinction  in  hav- 
ing lost  a  friend.  She  so  young  too.  When  old  women  wore 
black  shawls  and  bonnets,  there  seemed  nothing  in  that ; 
plenty  such  came  into  meeting ;  there  was  probably  nothing 
else  left,  and  it  was  not  worth  while  that  they  should  buy 
anything  new.  The  first  Sunday  after  Augusta  Hare  came, 
my  open-worked  straw-bonnet,  with  the  blue  gauze  ribbon  (I 
hated  gauze,  it  curled  up  so  at  the  ends ;  it  couldn't  float, 
even  if  there  had  ever  been  enough  of  it) ,  seemed  so  tawdry 
and  unmeaning,  —  so  little-girlish,  —  when  I  put  it  on!  I 
had  a  secret  wish  in  my  heart  that  I  was  grown  up,  —  not 
very  old,  —  and  that  I  had  somebody  belonging  to  me  for 
whom  it  would  be  time  to  die.  I  thought  of  no  one  in  partic- 
ular. I  do  not  think  there  was  any  wickedness  in  my  wish. 
I  thought  only  of  the  sublimity  of  death  ;  of  the  greatness  of 
having  had  it  come  near  one. 

It  was  Augusta  Hare's  father  who  had  died  ;  the  pity  of  it 
I  could  not  comprehend,  only  the  poetic  pathos,  never  having 
known  what  daughterhcod  truly  was.  I  supposed  it  had  been 
quite  time,  and  it  seemed  to  me  no  ill  for  him,  but  a  crowning ; 
he  became  kingly  to  my  thought,  and  a  question  about  him 
trembled  for  weeks  within  me,  and  passed  with  a  thrill  from 
my  lips  at  last,  when  she  herself  said  something  which  drew 
it  forth.  All  things  came  to  me  in  this  wise,  with  a  depth 


A   STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  13 

and  a  passion,  according  to  their  kind.  Only  my  own  life 
seemed  so  poor,  —  a  mere  living  on,  with  no  quick  stirrings. 
It  Avas  bad  for  me  ;  I  should  make  all  kinds  of  false  estimates 
and  mistakes  ;  what  I  ought  to  have  had  was  the  beauty  of 
childhood  ;  the  harm  was  in  my  being  "  too  big  a  girl.". 

It  was  Augusta's  father ;  and  she  had  money  of  her  own 
which  he  had  left  her ;  this  made  her  so  important  and  so 
talked  about ;  houses  and  stores  belonged  to  her,  away  in 

H ,  where  Mr.  Edgell,  being  her  guardian,  had  to  go  and 

transact  business  for  her.  She  was  to  stay  a  little  while  here, 
and  then  go  away  to  a  boarding-school :  another  of  the  grand 
possibilities,  which  would  never,  I  supposed,  be  possible  to 
me. 

Besides  all  this,  she  told  Margaret  and  Julia,  in  the  deepest 
confidence,  that  she  was  engaged.  As  soon  as  she  had  done 
school  she  would  be  married.  If  I  had  venerated  her  before, 
there  is  no  verb  to  express  what  I  did  then.  Grown-up  peo- 
ple, particularly  men  who  make  the  dictionaries,  have  no 
need,  perhaps  no  recollection  of  a  need,  for  such  an  utterance. 
Whether  in  the  truest  things  or  the  most  fantastic,  there  is 
nothing  like  the  intensity  of  a  child.  Straight  to  the  vital 
essence  its  imagination  and  its  insight  go ;  stopped  by  no 
contradictions,  no  practicalities. 

I  am  remembering  a  foolishness  ;  but  I  believed  in  some- 
thing grand.  I  cannot  help  being  reminded,  even  by  a  fool- 
ishness, of  what  the  Master  said  concerning  this  seizing  of 
greatness  and  glory,  and  how  far  might  be  its  reach.  "  They 
only  do  always  behold  the  very  face,"  —  even  of  "  your  Father 
which  is  in  heaven." 

In  the  midst  of  all  this,  I  left  off  hemming  towels,  and  with 
weariness  and  tears  was  learning  to  darn  stockings. 

I  had  two  comforts  over  this  work,  grinding  and  distaste- 
ful ;  one  was  to  get  down  with  it  sometimes  into  Lucretia's 
room,  in  those  clean,  restful  hours  between  the  eating  of 
dinner  and  the  getting  of  tea ;  when  the  cat,  and  the  tea- 
kettle, and  the  few  flies  that  escaped  Aunt  Ildy's  and 
Lucretia's  vigilance  and  resisted  their  traps, 'had  the  kitchen 
to  themselves,  and  Aunt  Ildy  had  stepped  out,  or  was  taking 


14  HITHERTO: 

a  nap,  or  gone  to  a  sewing  circle,  or  preparatory  meeting, 
and  Lucretia  would  let  me  in,  and,  perhaps,  tell  me  a  story. 

Her  room  was  off  the  kitchen,  and  down,  by  two  steps ; 
these,  clean  and  glossy  with  old-fashioned  thick,  dark  yellow 
paint  and  almost  daily  soapsuds  ;  from  a  little  child  I  re- 
member them,  worn  into  hollows  along  the  edges  and  knobby 
around  the  nail-heads.  Sometimes  I  had  used  to  "  keep 
store  "  there,  kneeling  on  the  floor  and  setting  out  my  goods 
upon  them ;  selling  things  to  Lucretia  as  she  came  to  want 
them  in  her  work ;  pepper-box,  and  salt-cellar,  and  nutmeg- 
grater,  knife,  spoon,  and  dipper.  This  was  when  she  was  not 
hurried,  of  course,  and  when  she  happened  to  be  very  good- 
natured  ;  and  she  used  to  pay  me  with  spotted  beans.  After- 
ward these  were  my  counters  in  "  Hull  Gull ;  "  I  doing  all  the 
handling  and  counting,  shutting  my  eyes  and  picking  up  hap- 
hazard, when  it  was  my  turn  to  guess  how  man}7,  and  keeping 
conscientiously  the  two  piles,  Lucretia's  and  my  own,  of 
which  hers  went  when  the  game  was  over  into  the  bean-box 
again,  and  mine»into  a  little  bag  to  "  make  change  "  in  my 
next  shop-keeping. 

An  old-fashioned  chest  of  drawers,  ver}r  much  perfumed 
with  musk  and  apples  ;  a  bedstead,  glorious  with  a  patchwork 
quilt  in  a  sort  of  Hail-Columbia  star  pattern  on  a  dark-blue 
ground,  of  which  every  bit  was  the  text  of  some  reminiscent 
narrative  ;  a  great  oval,  braided  woollen  mat  which  carpeted  the 
middle  of  the  painted  floor  ;  and  a  low,  broad  window,  opening 
into  the  back  garden,  with  morning-glories  and  scarlet  beans 
growing  to  its  top  in  summer,  close  by  whose  pleasantness 
stood  a  black  and  yellow  wooden  rocking-chair,  with  cushions 
upon  the  seat  and  across  the  head-piece  covered  with  remark- 
able figured  patch,  upon  which  a  summer-house  and  a  red- 
tailed  rooster,  the  one  as  big  as  the  other,  alternated,  —  these 
made  up  the  external  furnishings  and  charms  of  Lucretia's 
room.  About  these  clung  the  perception  of  a  kind  of  life  pe- 
culiar to  itself;  not  the  high  and  picturesque,  of  which  I  had 
vague  dreams  and  glimpses  elsewhere  and  in  other  moods,  but 
the  plain  and  cosey,  contented,  commonplace  and  comfortable. 
Among  them  were  suggestions  of  "  away  down  East,"  where 


A    STOIiY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  15 

this  life  had  begun,  almost  in  the  very  Avilds  ;  of  up-country 
frolics,  huskings  and  quillings,  sleighs-rides  and  singing-schools  ; 
of  camp-meetings  and  "  hirings  out,"  when  Lucretia,  like  other 
girls  of  her  circle,  had  entered  for  a  winter  or  a  summer  into 
some  neighbor  household,  making  one  with  it,  and  "helping 
round  ;  "  learning  its  life  and  plans  and  interests  from  an  inte- 
rior view ;  being  behind  the  scenes  at  a  "  weddin',"  or  a  fu- 
neral perhaps  ;  knowing  all  about  how  the  match  and  the  cake 
were  made,  or  the  "  particklers "  of  the  illness  and  the  final 
frame  of  mind, —  all  this  I  heard  in  scraps  from  Lucretia,  and 
idealized,  in  one  way,  as  I  did  Helen  Mar's  adventures,  or  the 
contemporary  life  of  the  Edgells,  in  another.  It  was  not  all 
misfortune,  my  being  imaginative  ;  I  got  a  great  deal  out  of  it. 

My  other  comfort  was  in  an  accomplishment  I  had  acquired 
with  infinite  pains,  and  could  only  exercise  by  stealth ;  that 
of  reading  and  darning  at  the  same  time,  seizing  two  or  three 
lines  while  I  drew  out  my  long  thread,  digesting  and  enjoying 
them  while  I  inned  and  outed  the  next  woof-line  with  my 
needle.  In  this  fashion  I  embroidered  banners,  in  fancy,  with 
Helen  in  her  Scottish  castle.  I  trembled  at  her  perils  in  the 
hands  of  Soulis  or  De  Valence ;  I  knelt  in  the  chapel  beside 
Sir  William  Wallace,  and  I  watched  the  triumphal  entry  into 
Sterling  from  the  walls  of  Snawdoun.  I  had  this,  and  the  six 
volumes  of  Santo  Sebastiano,  and  the  seven  of  Sir  Charles 
Grandison.  Mrs.  Hathaway  lent  me  these  last,  one  at  a  time. 
After  all,  I  was  not  thoroughly  unhappy.  One  might  live 
through  deeper  basketfuls  of  darns  than  mine  in  company  like 
theirs. 

Aunt  Ildy  and  Lucretia  were  immersed,  one  day,  in  the 
anxieties  of  preserving ;  all  the  afternooa  they  were  busy 
pasting  papers  over  jars  and  tumblers,  and  setting  in  final 
array  their  ruby  and  amber  pride  on  the  long  shelves  of  the 
great  store-room.  I  was  safe  upstairs  with  my  books  and  my 
long  needle  and  my  mending  cotton  ;  it  was  only  to  work  an 
hour  more,  at  most,  and  I  did  not  care  for  the  lane  to-day. 
Lady  Sclina  had  just  torn  her  dress  in  the  library  door  at 
which  she  had  been  listening,  and  Lord  Delainore  was  recom- 
mending her  to  have  it  "  fine-drawn  ;  "  that  was  a  pretty  word 


16  HITHERTO : 

for  tedious  doings.  I  called  my  darnings  to  myself  by  that 
new  name,  and  went  on  pricking  up  the  balls  of  my  fingers 
contentedly  ;  as  eager  meanwhile  as  if  I  had  not  read  it  a  dozen 
times  before,  to  see  how  all  should  come  out  straight,  the  fine- 
drawing  of  deceit  be  demolished,  and  Julia's  integrity  tri- 
umphantly made  manifest. 

All  at  once,  from  the  garden  door,  a  light  step  came  up  the 
stairs  and  around  to  my  room.  I  had  been  too  absorbed  to 
notice  from  the  window  that  any  one  had  entered. 

How  lovely  she  was,  as  I  turned  and  saw  her  then,  in  her 
clear,  black  muslin  with  tiniest  dashes  of  white,  and  a  knot 
of  black  ribbon  in  her  hair !  -  In  her  hand,  streaming  down  in 
brilliant  contrast  over  her  dress,  was  a  rich,  broad  bonnet- 
scarf  of  blue,  fringed  at  the  ends,  as  I  had  seen  the  Edgells' 
last  Sunda}'.  Theirs  were  violet,  and  green ;  the  gifts,  and 
the  suggestion  of  the  new  style,  had  been  from  Cousin  Augusta. 
It  was  a  simple,  graceful  fashion  that  had  just  come  up,  infi- 
nitely taking  to  my  fanciful  eye,  of  replacing  all  the  perks  and 
pinks  and  bows  of  flimsy  gauze,  and  the  tawdry  flowers,  such 
as  had  been  worn,  with  a  single  band  of  wide  lutestring  passed 
up  from  under  the  chin  across  the  bonnet  in  the  depression 
between  front  and  crown,  and  tied  at  one  side  in  a  careless 
knot  or  loop,  with  long  ends  fluttering  down  upon  the  shoul- 
der. Next  to  a  veil,  it  was  the  loveliest  head-gear  I  had  ever 
seen. 

"  I  have  brought  this  over  for  jrou,  dear,"  said  Cousin 
Augusta ;  and  then  the  sky  fell  down. 

Something  seemed  to  make  the  beautiful  thing  she  held  out 
to  me  oscillate  before  my  vision  from  side  to  side,  like  the 
leaping  reflection  of  light  from  a  moving  mirror.  I  fairly  put 
my  hands  up  to  rub  my  eyes. 

"  Get  your  bonnet,  Nansie  ;  let's  try  it  on." 

She  took  it  for  granted  I  should  dare.  She  took  upon  her- 
self, perhaps  purposely,  the  responsibility  of  act  and  instiga- 
tion. Otherwise,  how  should  I  have  laid  a  sacrilegious  finger 
on  that  Sunday  finery  of  mine,  which,  once  put  together  under 
Aunt  Ildy's  order  and  supervision,  became  that  inviolable 
thing  the  " new "  and  "best;"  which  should  continue  such 


A    STORY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  17 

through  whatever  gradual  fading,  and  crushing,  and  fraying, 
till  the  same  august  authority  should  ordain  a  substitution. 

Nothing  but  bits  of  curled  and  shabby  ribbons,  defaced,  un- 
meaning flowers,  and  scraps  of  flabby  lace  they  were  which 
Augusta  Hare  removed  so  unconcernedly,  and  laid  into  a  little 
worthless  heap ;  but  I  trembled  at  every  stitch  she  snipped, 
and  every  pin  she  drew,  as  if  she  were  laying  violent  hands 
on  the  pillars  of  some  sublime  institution.  I  caught  my  breath, 
while  she  chatted  easily  and  pleasantly. 

What,  made  her  take  this  notice  of  me,  and  show  me  this 
kindness  ?  She  knew  how  I  worshipped  her  ;  and  she  liked  to 
be  worshipped.  She  knew  I  had  been  drawn,  atom  as  I  was, 
into  her  irresistible  sphere,  and  had  become  a  little  satellite. 
The  tremendous  force  of  gravitation  is  a  mutual  thing ;  the 
great  sun  himself  cannot  but  lean  a  little,  in  his  turn,  towards 
the  smallest  orb  that  wheels  about  him.  Otherwise,  there  was 
nothing  in  me  that  could  have  won  a  thought  of  hers,  far  less 
her  love. 

The  open  straw  was  lined  with  white  ;  she  put  some  of  the 
freshest  of  the  little  blue  flowers,  picked  out  and  arranged  as 
only  her  fingers  could  do  it,  about  the  face,  and  then  she  set  it 
on  my  head,  bending  it  deftly,  tied  it  by  the  little  inside 
strings,  and  passed  the  rustling  elegance  about  it,  knotting  it 
at  the  side  with  one  upstanding  loop,  and  drawing  the  full 
ends  out  handsomely,  all  of  which  made  a  great  rushing  sound 
about  my  ears  while  her  hands  were  busy  at  it,  and  sent  a 
quiver  all  over  me  of  mingled  ecstasy  and  apprehension. 
What  would  Aunt  «Ildy  say  ?  But,  oh!  was  it  not  beautiful 
when  she  led  me  to  the  glass  to  look  ? 

"  Now  do  it  yourself,  and  let  me  see.  Not  too  long  a  bow ; 
there,  just  that ;  the  shortest  end  forward  and  uppermost,  — 
so ;  it's  just  as  pretty  as  it  can  be,  and  it  covers  all  the  pin- 
places.  Why,  the  bonnet  looks  quite  new  !  " 

Oh,  dear  me,  if  Aunt  Ilcly  had  heard  that !  When  it  was 
my  "  new"  bonnet  —  bought  and  trimmed  three  months  ago  ! 

I  don't  suppose  it  entered  Augusta  Hare's  head  that  she  had 
done  an  impertinent  thing,  she  was  so  used  to  choosing  and 
changing  for  herself,  and  the  Edgells  thought  nothing  of  tak- 
2 


18  HITHERTO .' 

in°r  the  like  little  fancies  and  liberties  with  their  dress.     It 

o 

was  only  I  who  dared  not  say  that  my  bonnet  was  my  own. 
I  dared  not  even  confess  to  Augusta  Hare  that  it  was  not.  I 
could  only  kiss  her  and  thank  her  for  her  gift,  and  stammer- 
ingly  "hope  that.  Aunt  Ildy  — "  "Oh!  Miss  Chisrn  will  be 
sure  to  like  it,"  she  interrupted,  where  I  could  not  have  fin- 
ished. "  It's  all  the  fashion,  and  plain  too ;  nothing  dashy 
about  it ;  just  the  thing  to  wear  with  your  white,  ruffled,  dimity 
coat." 

And,  kissing  me  again,  she  went  downstairs. 

I  put  all  the  scraps,  which  were  fit  only  to  have  gone  straight 
to  the  rag-bag,  reverently  into  the  bottom  of  the  bandbox, 
and  shut  the  bonnet  in  with  them,  the  bright  scarf  tied  across 
it  as  it  should  be"  worn  ;  for  I  liked  to  leave  it  so,  and  there 
was  the  vague  thought  of  Aunt  Ildy,  who  must  come  to  see  it 
sooner  or  later,  and  to  whom  otherwise  it  would  have  simply 
seemed  a  denuded  and  annihilated  thing,  since  she  could  never 
have  taken  in  the  unexpressed  idea  ;  and  I  went  back  to  my 
darning  —  rich,  and  glad,  and  frightened  to  death. 

I  suppose  if  I  had  been  six  or  eight  years  older,  and  had 
gone  and  got  privately  married,  I  could  not  have  come  back 
into  Miss  Chism's  presence  with  a  more  awful  consciousness 
upon  me  than  I  bore  that  night.  I  cowered  guiltily  within, 
myself  when  Uncle  Royle  spoke  kindly  to  me,  and  felt  a  con- 
demned traitor  as  Aunt  Ildy  helped  me  to  butter.  Confession 
was  struggling  to  my  lips  ;  I  longed  to  ease  my  mind  ;  but  I 
waited,  turning  over  phrases  that  should  not  quite  choke  me  ; 
nay,  that  should  seem  innocently  fearless,  taking  it  for  granted 
that  the  thing  should  be  approved. 

"  O  aunty ! "  I  began,  desperately,  once,  as  she  had  her 
head  in  the  cupboard,  putting  by  the  cake,  "  Miss  Augusta 
Hai-e  has  given  —  " 

"  The  cheese,  Anstiss,"  said  Aunt  Ildy,  with  neither  inter- 
est nor  attention  diverted  by  my  words  from  what  she  was 
about.  "  And  the  quince.  Quick  !  " 

I  handed  her  from  the  tea-table  what  she  called  for,  and  she 
closed  and  buttoned  the  cupboard ;  closed  and  buttoned  my 


A    STORY    OF   YESTERDAYS.  19 

lips  also ;  for  how  could  that  sudden  remembrance  occur  to 
me  in  like  manner  again  ? 

She  kept  me  busy  with  the  dishes,  and  running  to  and  fro ; 
then  she  got  out  the  cribbage-board,  and  she  and  Uncle  Royle 
began  their  unfailing  game.  I  had  some  knitting  and  worked 
tremulously  at  that. 

Once  more,  a  little  later,  as  they  gathered  up  their  tricks 
after  a  hand,  I  did  essay :  — 

"  O  aunty  !  I  was  going  to  tell  you  —  " 

"  Fifteen  two,  fifteen  four,  a  pair  is  six ;  six,  seven,  eight 
and  six,  seven,  eight  is  twelve,  and  his  nob  —  thirteen!" 
counted  Uncle  Royle,  and  put  me  out  again. 


20  SITHERTO  : 


CHAPTER  II. 

PUNISHMENT. 

I  WAS  putting  away  the  last  of  the  pink-edged  cups  and 
plates  in  the  high  oak  dresser  the  next  morning  after  break- 
fast, when  I  heard  Aunt  Ilcly  go  down  the  half  flight  of  stairs 
which  led  to  the  street  door,  and  Richard  Hathaway's  cheery 
voice  greeting  her  below. 

"  I've  driven  mother  down  this  morning,  you  see,  Miss 
Chism.  She's  got  shopping  to  do  in  the  town,  "and  —  well, 
you'd  best  step  out,  if  you'll  be  so  good,  and  she'll  tell  you 
her  plans  herself." 

I  came  as  far  as  the  jog  in  the  passage,  and  caught  a  glimpse 
of  Mrs.  Hathaway's  kindly  and  comely  face  leaning  forth  from 
behind  the  canvas  side  of  the  covered  wagon,  where  she  sat 
holding  the  reins  while  her  son  should  bring  in  box  and  bas- 
ket. 

"  Yes,  Ildy,"  she  was  saying,  "  it's  a  proper  pleasant  day, 
and  there  wasn't  much  of  a  load  to  go  or  come,  so  we  took 
the  wagon,  Richard  and  I ;  and  what  I  want  is  that  when  we 
get  along  back,  —  three  o'clock,  say,  —  you  an'  Anstiss?ll  have 
your  things  on  to  go  out  with  us  to  the  farm  and  spend  Sun- 
day. Lucreshy'll  take  care  of  Royle  for  once,  I  guess,  —  I 
don't  suppose  there's  any  use  of  asking  him,  —  and  the  rowen's 
bein'  cut,  and  the  fields  are  as  sweet  as  June.  It'll  do  you 
good  ;  especially  the  child." 

I  wished  she  had  not  said  that  last  word ;  not  that  Aunt 
Ildy  really  would  grudge  me  a  good  ;  but  she  would  feel  I  had 
no  business  to  be  put  first,  or  "  specially." 

"Oh,  I  don't  exactly  know  how,"  she  began,  in  reply. 
"  Saturday's  a  poor  day  to  drop  things  just  where  they  are. 
I  aint  ever  much  given  to  jaunting,  you  know.  I  guess  you'd 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  21 

better  come  back  here  and  take  an  early  tea,  and  ride  home 
in  the  edge  of  ^the  evening.  We'll  come  out  some  other  time, 
—  a  week-day,  maybe." 

"  No  such  a  thing,  Ildy  Chism.  Some  other  time  isn't  any 
time  at  all.  It  won't  be  you  if  your  house  isn't  Sunday-straight 
by  two  o'clock,  and  I  shall  just  carry  out  my  own  calculation, 
or  not  come  back  here  at  all,  —  unless,  indeed,  you'll  let  An- 
stiss  go  without  you." 

"  That  wouldn't  do.  There'd  be  nothing  of  her  to  come 
back  a-Monday.  She'd  leave  a  piece  on  every  bush  on  the 
farm.  If  you're  so  set,  —  well,  I'll  see  about  it." 

This  was  New-English  for  full  consent ;  for  thanks  and  all, 
with  Aunt  Ildy.  So  I  knew  we  should  go  ;  and  I  had  great 
ado  to  hold  myself  quiet,  and  wait  for  proper  notice  of  her 
intention  from  Aunt  Ildy  herself,  after  she  should  have  "  seen 
about  it."  I  did  not  think,  though,  she  need  have  made  me 
out  quite  such  a  romp.  I  was  ashamed  to  have  Richard  Hath- 
away stand  there  and  hear  her  speak  so  of  me. 

He  came  in  just  then,  with  the  nice,  fresh-smelling  box  of 
new-made  butter,  and  the  basket  of  hardly  less  fragrant  eggs, 
warm  and  spotless  right  out  of  the  hay.  He  always  brought 
them -in  himself,  though  Lucretia  often  met  him  at  the  door, 
and  would  have  taken  them.  He  always  had  a  pleasant  word 
for  me  too,  though  Richard  Hathaway  was  never  given  to 
much  talking. 

"  Are  you  glad,  Nansie?"  He  saw  by  my  face,  I  am  sure, 
that  I  had  heard. 

"  I  shall  be  when  it's  time,"  I  answered,  demurely.  I  had 
never  heard  of  such  things  then,  but  I  knew  practically  well 
enough  the  difference  between  informal  information  and  offi- 
cial announcements.  In  Aunt  Ildy's  regime  nothing  was, 
until  she  declared  it  to  be. 

Richard  looked  in  my  eyes  and  laughed.  I  knew  why ;  I 
felt  them  dancing  in  my  head  ;  and  there  had  been  a  tilt  in  my 
voice  that 'I  tried  to  make  so  calm. 

"  The  old  Cropple-crown  has  got  fourteen  chickens." 

There  was  no  use  in  trying  then  ;  I  laughed  out,  all  my 
delight  bubbling  over  together  with  this  last  drop.  Aunt 


22  HITHERTO: 

Ildy  came  in  and  found  me  so.  She  thought  Richard  had 
told  me.  She  said  nothing  till  Richard  had  gone,  and  then 
only  sharply :  — 

"  You  needn't  be  too  sure.  I  haven't  decided  yet.  It  will 
depend." 

I  understood  that.  Oh,  if  I  only  could  please  her  all  the 
morning  and  seem  not  to  be  too  happy  about  anything  par- 
ticular !  I  tried  to  move  round  as  usual,  and  not  to  dance  or 
sing.  I  did  not  ask  her  a  single  question,  but  waited  pa- 
tiently. I  bit  my  lips  when  ecstatic  thoughts  came  suddenly, 
and  checked  myself  on  the  very  verge  of  glad  "  ifs." 

For  three  hours  I  truly  believe  I  never  once  remembered 
my  bonnet.  When  I  did  think  of  it,  there  was  no  chance  for 
anything  like  casual  mention.  I  should  have  had  to  follow 
her  pertinaciously  into  a  closet,  or  waylay  her  in  full  career, 
and- make  it  a  regular  confession.  I  did  not  see  why  I  need 
put  myself  at  that  disadvantage. 

0  Aunt  Ildy !    with  everybody  else  I  was  a  frank  child ; 
witfi  yourself,  you  tempted  me  to  be  old  and  wary.     This  was 
the  greatest  harm  j'ou  did  me. 

1  was  to  wear  my  gingham  cape-bonnet  to  ride  over  and 
run   about   the  farm  in,  of  course ;  Aunt   Ildy  would   never 
"hear  to"  my  "flacketting  round  "  in  my  best  things  on  any 
but  best  occasions.     My  little  bandbox  held,  as  well  as  my 
bonnet,  my  white  dimity  coat  pinned  up  in  a  large  old  towel. 
Aunt  lid}'  gave  it  to  me  to  put  in,  and  left  the  box  itself  in 
my  charge,  telling  me  not  to  carry  it  upside  down.     My  heart 
fluttered  up  and  back  again  between  its  proper  place  and  my 
throat,  as  she  did  so.     I  stood  beside  the  bed  with  my  back 
turned  to  her,  and  when  the  choke  went  down  a  little  began 
again :  — 

"  Aunt  Ildy !  Just  see  —  "  but  here  I  heard  her  voice  sud- 
denly calling  to  Lucretia  from  the  farther  stair-head.  She 
was  eveiywhere  at  once  this  busy  day. 

So  dinner  came,  and  three  o'clock,  and  the  Hathaways ; 
and  Richard  helped  Aunt  Ildy  in  upon  the  back  seat  with  his 
mother,  and  lifted  me  up  in  front  to  sit  with  him.  Aunt 
Ildy's  bandbox,  containing  her  Sunday  bonnet  and  best  cap,  — 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  23 

she,  too,  religiously  reserved  her  best  and  wore  her  green 
calash,  —  was  made  room  for  under  the  seat,  and  she  took  her 
double-covered  basket  in  which  were  our  night-clothes  in  her 
lap.  Richard  put  my  little  box  between  his  feet,  "  so  that," 
he  whispered,  "  I  might  drive,  by  and  by  ;  "  and  we  were  off 
up  the  long  River  Street  and  out  among  the  meadows. 

The  farm  was  four  miles  away,  just  on  the  edge  of  Broad- 
fields  ;  within  a  mile  or  so  of  Broadfields  meeting-house, 
'where  we  should  go  to-morrow. 

Our  ride  that  afternoon  is  one  of  the  things  that  come  up 
most  vividly  in  my  recollection  of  old  days.  Its  hope  and 
delight  and  dread  were  so  intense,  by  turns  ;  its  beguiling  of 
beauty  and  present  content  were  so  full,  at  times,  and  so 
forgetful  of  the  rest. 

"We  used  to  have  "  rides  "  then  ;  they  were  a  great  deal  bet- 
ter things  than  "  drives "  are  nowadays.  I  cannot  more 
than  half  fall  in  with  the  new-fashioned  precision,  and  I  am 
inclined  somewhat  to  dispute  its  being  so  precise  after  all. 
It  leaves  some  inconvenient  open  questions  and  ambiguities. 
For  instance,  do  you  drive,  or  ride,  or  what  then,  in  a  stage- 
coach or  a  horse-car?  And  what  is  the  difference  when  one 
actually  holds  the  reins?  You  drive  yourself,  or  somebody 
else,  do  you?  Very  well ;  \\ihat  do  you  do  with  the  horse? 

I  rode  that  day  sitting  by  Richard's  side,  he  managing  the 
great  brown  bay  ;  I  drove  when  he  gave  it  up  to  me  for  a  safe, 
level  space,  and  a  few  watchful  minutes  on  his  part ;  the 
driving  was  dignified  and  exciting ;  the  riding  was  passive, 
dreamy,  haunted  with  imaginations,  freshened  with  new 
thoughts  that  came  in,  manifold,  by  the  wa3'side. 

It  was  early  in  September,  and  the  white  and  purple  asters 
were  beginning  to  smile  and  nod  by  the  fences ;  the  sweet- 
briers  were  perfecting  their  -scarlet  ovals,  and  the  fragrance 
of  ripening  fruits  and  late  hay-crops  came  up  under  the  har- 
vest sun.  Flocks  of  turkeys  were  roaming  the  stubble  of 
early  grain-fields ;  there  were  heaps  of  corn,  waiting  for  the 
husking,  already  gathered  into  some  of  the  great,  open  barns  ; 
some  of  the  stirring  housewives  had  got  out  goodly  strings  of 
apples  to  dry  against  the  clapboards  ;  one  began,  in  the  midst 


24  HITHERTO:  * 

of  the  warmth  and  perfume  of  summer,  to  get  a  flavor  of  the 
coming  cheer  and  plenty  and  snugness  of  a  New  England 
winter.  It  is  with  this  meeting  of  ripeness  and  beauty,  this 
focal  point  of  joy  where  labor  and  reward,  growth  and  rest, 
salute  each  other  and  their  mingled  breath  is  on  the  air,  that 
autumn  recompenses  for  the  harsh  doubts  and  strifes,  the 
uncertain  advance  and  retard,  the  delays  and  chills  and  dis- 
appointments of  that  opposite  pole  of  the  year,  our  American 
spring.  Every  sense  brings  back  to  me  at  this  moment  what 
every  sense  enjoyed  that  day,  so  long  ago.  And  I  can  look 
back  now  and  take  the  good  of  it,  which  was  the  life  of  it, 
while  the  pain,  which  was  a  passing  thing,  is  done  with. 

The  pain  came  up  when  we  saw  Broadfields  spire  between 
the  hills.  I  must  tell  her  to-night ;  I  ought  to  have  told  her 
long  before.  I  had,  in  a  manner,  obtained  a  pleasure  under 
false  pretences,  coming  out  here  with  her,  bringing  undeclared 
iniquity  in  nay  innocent-looking  band-box  before  her  very 
eyes.  I  knew  what  she  would  think  and  say,  but  I  began  to 
feel  that  it  must  be  to-night,  at  all  hazards  ;  it  would  be  too 
audacious  to  put  the  bonnet  on  to-morrow.  I  am  sure  I  looked 
pale  and  wild  when  Richard  Hathawa}^  lifted  me  down  over 
the  wheel,  and  gave  the  box  into  my  hand. 

I  followed  Aunt  Ildy  up  into  the  best  bedroom,  trembling. 
I  remember  I  stood  and  looked  at  the  little  balls  on  the  white 
curtain  fringes,  moved  lightly  in  the  gentle  air  that  came  in  at 
the  opened  windows,  as  one  looks  at  little  senseless  things 
like  these,  when  one  is  about  to  suffer  a  great  pain  or  danger. 

Aunt  Ildy  was  pinning  on  her  cap  at  the  glass.  There  was 
something  brave  and  honest,  after  all,  in  my  telling  it  then  ; 
for  my  visit  had  not  fairly  begun  ;  there  were  dreadful  things 
in  her  power,  besides  I  had  truly  tried  before. 

"Aunt  Ildy,  Miss  Augusta  Hare  made  me  a  present,  yes- 
terday, of  a  scarf  for  my  bonnet,  and  showed  me  how  to  put  it 
on.  It  is  just  like  those  she  gave  the  Edgells,  only  theirs  are 
purple  and  green.  Mine  is  blue." 

I  don't  know  how  I  said  it  all.  Something  came  up  in  me  with 
my  honest,  though  tardy  effort,  of  a  sustaining  conscious- 
ness that  I  had  a  right  to  put  it  so,  —  as  a  simple  matter  in 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  25 

which  I  looked  for  no  blame,  —  and  to  claim,  of  course,  her  in- 
terest and  appreciation  for  the  gift.  While  I  spoke,  I  opened 
the  bandbox  and  took  the  bonnet  out.  I  adjusted  the  bow, 
and  smoothed  the  floating  ends.  I  held  it  forth  —  in  a  dead 
silence. 

I  think  Aunt  Ildy  was  fairly  at  a  loss  for  words.  I  had 
never  done  anything  like  this  before.  Now  it  was  a  greatness 
thrust  upon  me.  It  was  like  a  Declaration  of  Independence. 
I  don't  know  how  John  Hancock  and  the  rest  felt  when  they 
had  done  it.  I  only  know  my  teeth  would  have  chattered  if  I 
had  not  held  them  forcibly  apart,  and  that  all  my  breath  was 
gone. 

Her  great  gray  eyes  looked  at  me  in  a  way  they  had,  as  if 
the  very  Day  of  Judgment  were  coming  down  out  of  them. 
I  waited,  tiying  not  to  let  the  inward  tremble  become  a  visi- 
ble shake,  or  the  Day  of  Judgment  know  I  saw  it. 

"  You  —  little  —  artful  —  hypocrite  !  "  came  at  last  with  the 
most  awful  and  bitter  deliberation.  "You  think  you  have  got 
here,  do  you  ?  And  your  bonnet  with  you  ?  And  that  I  can't 
help  it?  Lay  that  thing  down.  Open  that  basket.  Takeout 
your  night-gown.  Now  undress  yourself  and  go  to  bed." 

She  said  it  all  slowly,  and  in  a  monotone,  her  finger  on  the 
unfastened  side  of  her  cap,  and  then  turned  round  to  the  glass 
again,  and  put  in  the  last  pin. 

I  laid  the  thing  down,  —  the  beautiful  thing  that  might  have 
given  me  so  much  pleasure.  I  opened  the  basket,  and  took  out 
my  night-gown,  —  a  plain  little  garment  with  straight  sleeves 
and  ungarnished  neckband,  made  last  winter  of  brown  cotton, 
and  partly  bleached  by  wearing  and  washing  to  a  fitness  for 
summer  use.  And  then  I  turned  and  faced  Aunt  Ildy  in  the 
glass,  while  I  reached  up  over  my  shoulders  to  unfasten  my 
frock. 

"  Don't  say  ,1  was  artful,  Aunt  Ildy.  I  wanted  you  to  know, 
and  I  tried  to  tell  you,  but  I  couldn't  get  a  chance." 

"  Chance!" 

The  contempt,  the  utter  discredit,  the  putting  to  shame  and 
absurdity  of  such  a  plea,  the  flinging  back  my  truth  into  my 


26  HITHERTO  : 

face  as  a  lie,  —  all  these,  inflected  in  that  one  word,  could  nei- 
ther be  spelled  nor  punctuated. 

My  cheeks,  my  ears,  tingled  with  anger.  I  heard  little 
electric  snaps  in  my  head,  and  they  seemed  to  go  out  at  my 
eyes.  If  I  had  been  six  years  old,  instead  of  twelve,  I  should 
have  stamped  and  slapped  at  her.  I  hated  her  at  that  minute, 
as  only  a  child  outraged  and  exasperated,  can  hate.  I  relieved 
myself  with  a  venomous  impertinence. 

"  You  take  up  people's  words,  Miss  Chism.  That  is  very 
ill-mannered." 

Then  she  came  to  me  and  shook  me  ;  shook  me  and  glared 
at  me,  and  at  last  pushed  me  roughly  toward  the  bed.  I  let 
myself  fall  upon  it,  and  shut  my  eyes  and  tried  to  faint  away.  I 
often  tried  and  longed  for  this  ;  tried  and  longed  when  my  blood 
was  boiling,  and  wondered  that  I  could  not  bring  it  to  pass. 

Aunt  Ildy  looked  at  me  as  one  who  had  done  her  duty,  and 
who  left  me  to  my  tantrums  and  my  conscience.  I  believe  she 
truly  felt  that  she  did  her  duty  by  me,  and  that  it  was  she 
upon  whom  it  fell  hard.  She  kept  on  doing  it.  I  will  do  her 
the  justice  to  say  she  never  flinched.  Whatever  praise  belongs 
to  her  for  that,  let  me  award  it. 

She  left  me  and  went  downstairs.  As  soon  as  she  had 
gone,  I  put  off  fainting,  and  got  up  and  bolted  the  door.  I 
knew  I  should  not  dare  to  leave  it  so  ;  but  there  was  a  tempo- 
rary relief  in  pretending  to  myself  that  I  had  shut  her  out. 

I  was  only  a  child,  and  not  a  vindictive  one.  Children's  in- 
tense passions  are  mercifully  short-lived ;  by  the  time  I  had  taken 
off  my  stockings,  I  had  begun  to  cool.  By  the  time  I  got  my 
night-gown  on,  I  began  to  feel  I  had  been  in  fault.  That  was 
the  sting  alwaj'S  ;  I  was  never  persecuted  wholly  for  righteous- 
ness' sake  ;  I  knew  I  ^vas  persecuted,  and  I  could  wish  it  might 
have  been  for  once  as  a  pure  martyr.  Then  I  could  have  known 
a  kind  of  glorious  joy  in  my  resentment ;  a  thrill  of  sweet- 
ness in  my  grief.  This  was  a  piece  of  my  prose  ;  I  knew,  after 
all,  that  I  was  only  a  commonplace,  naughty  girl,  and  I  could 
never  faint  away. 

In  my  thought  of  myself  I  was  true,  —  ever  unsparing. 
I  confessed  to  myself  that  I  had  not  been  blameless.  Tears 


A    STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  27 

came  down  my  hot  cheek,  and  I  was  sorry.  I  undrew 
the  bolt  and  crept  into  bed,  and  made  up  my  mind  that 
I  would  say  so  to  Aunt  Ildy.  I  always  did  say  so  in  the 
end ;  I  said  it  so  often,  alas  !  that  she  came  not  to  care  for  it, 
or  believe  it.  "  I  should  like  to  see  something  of  it,"  she 
would  say.  I  meant  she  should  see  something  of  it ;  perhaps 
if  she  had  been  anybody  else,  she  would  have  done  so.  I  was 
as  truly  penitent  as  I  had  been  wicked,  only  these  states  alter- 
nated so  swiftly  and  unexpectedly  with  each  other.  "  There 
was  no  consistence  in  it,"  Aunt  Ildy  said. 

The  bed  was  pleasant,  after  all ;  it  was  better  than  it  would 
have  been  to  go  down  there.  I  was  exhausted,  and  my  good 
time  there  was  spoiled,  at  any  rate.  I  could  lie  here  and 
watch  the  afternoon  away  in  peace.  I  was  at  peace  ;  with  a 
child,  to  be  sorry  is  to  be  at  once  inwardly  forgiven.  I  only 
wondered,  now  and  then,  with  a  little  tremor  of  mortification, 
what  Richard  and  Mrs.  Hathaway  would  think. 

The  bed  stood  right  across  a  western  window,  and  this 
looked  down  into  an  orchard.  •  I  could  smell  ripe  apples,  and 
hear  faint  clucks  and  chirps  of  feathered  families  picking  up 
meat  suppers  of  bugs  and  worms.  The  wide  sky  would  be  all 
golden  and  purple  and  red,  by  and  by,  as  the  sun  went  down ; 
and  the  moon  and  the  little  stars  would  be  out  above  the  hills. 
I  heard  the  great  wagons  creaking  up  to  the  barn,  and  the  hay- 
sweetness  was  shaken  out  into  all  the  air,  as  the  men  tossed  it 
up  with  their  forks  into  the  windows. 

As  the  sun  slanted  round,  ceasing  to  fall  full  across  me,  I 
put  out  my  hand  and  softly  pushed  back  the  green  blind,  and 
then  I  could  see  into  the  tree-tops  in  which  lived  little  birds  ; 
off  where  white  clouds  lay  low  along  the  heaven,  waiting  to 
put  on  their  glory  ;  away  to  green  hill-sides  and  far-off  grazing 
cows  and  sheep. 

Well,  I  was  here,  as  Aunt  Ildy  said ;  and  she  could  not 
help  that.  Not  until  Monday  morning.  Now  and  then  I 
thought  I  heard  her  coming,  and  would  pull  back  the  blind 
again.  I  must  not  let  her  know  that  I  could  escape  so  into 
all  this  beauty  and  delight.  She  must  believe  me  to  be  quite 


28  HITHERTO : 

miserable,  or  her  duty  would  not  be  done.  Was  this  deceitful- 
ness  of  nature,  or  only  the  instinct  of  self-defence? 

The  keeping-room  was  on  the  east  side  of  the  house  down- 
stairs. Behind  it  were  the  little  tea-parlor,  Mrs.  Hathaway's 
room,  and  the  kitchenT  I  and  the  sunset  would  be  quite  by 
ourselves.  This  was  good. 

As  I  lay  thinking  how  good,  something  came  filing  in  sud- 
denly through  my  open  window  and  fell  upon  my  bed.  Not  a 
bird.  A  great  red-brown,  odorous  pear.  Another  shot  fol- 
lowed. This  was  a  peach  as  big  as  my  two  hands  could  hold  ; 
amber-colored  on  one  side,  crimson  on  the  other  ;  a  little  mist 
of  dust-colored  down  like  a  veil  over  the  whole.  I  knew  the 
wind  did  not  blow  them  in.  I  knew  in  a  minute  that  good, 
kind  Richard  Hathaway  was  there,  and  that  he  did  not  de- 
spise, but  pitied  me,  in  my  fault  and  my  imprisonment..  I 
heard  a  step  crunching  the  short-cut  grass-stems  as  he  walked 
away. 

In  a  few  minutes  came  a  gentle  "  Biddy  !  Biddy  !  "  with  the 
steps  again,  and  a  fluttering  and  clucking  and  chirping  that 
drew  nearer  and  nearer.  1  sat  up,  pulled  the  blind  to  screen 
myself,  and  looked  through  it  from  behind  the  back  edge  of 
the  curtain.  I  saw  the  old  Cropple-crown,  and  I  counted  her 
fourteen  chickens.  I  saw  Richard  too,  who  had  lured  them 
patiently  down  under  my  window,  standing  back  under  the 
house  wall,  never  once  looking  up,  throwing  meal-dough  from 
a  tin  pan  among  them. 

"  Oh,  the  cunning  things  !  "  I  cried,  quite  off  my  guard  ;  and 
I  saw  Richard  Hathaway  smile,  but  still  he  never  looked  up. 

I  don't  know  ;  but  sometimes  I  think  now,  when  I  recollect 
of  him  things  like  these,  that  they  came  somehow  nearer  to 
poetry  and  chivalry,  —  small,  common  things  though  they  were, 
—  through  their  kindly  meaning,  and  the  delicate,  thoughtful 
way  in  which  he  managed  them,  than  I  dreamed  of  at  the  time, 
or  for  long  after.  Chivalry  is  not  all  in  riding  tilts,  or  storm- 
ing towers,  or  wearing  ladies'  gloves  ;  nor  even  in  sending  bou- 
quets to  front  doors,  or  singing  serenades  under  windows,  as 
the  young  men  of  New  Oxford  had  been  taken  with  doing,  in 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  29 

an  epidemic  sort  of  way,  ever  since  Augusta  Hare  had  been 
staying  at  the  Edgells. 

Aunt  Ildy  came  up  in  rigid,  stony,  sj'stematic  displeasure, 
which  was  a  part  of  her  discipline  and  fulfilment  of  duty  to- 
me-ward, and  brought  me  a  plate  of  bread  and  butter,  and  a 
glass  of  water,  at  six  o'clock.  She  set  it  down  upon  a  chair 
beside  the  bed  without  a  word.  Even  the  wicked  must  not 
starve,  bodily.  There  is  a  sixth  commandment  against  that. 
But  for  a  kind,  forgiving  word,  a  look  of  tender  rnercy  uncon- 
strained, a  glance  that  questions  hopefully  if  better  things 
may  yet  have  begun  to  be ;  it  is  well  that  the  child-spirit 
should  be  put  on  diet,  should  long  and  faint,  and  feel  pun- 
ished and  cast  out,  till  it  lose  its  appetite  even,  and  cease  to 
care,  and  fall  into  a  moral  atrophy.  Well  for  the  world  that 
God  knew  better,  and  sent  down  his  Son ! 

I  think  back  and  look  upon  my  then  self  in  a  strange  kind 
of  pity,  when  I  remember  how  I  repented  toward  this  icy  un- 
relenting, and  shed  warm  tears  against  this  face  of  rock. 

"  Aunt  Ildy.  Please  forgive  me.  I  am  sorry  I  spoke  to 
you  so."  Aunt  Ild3T's  hand  was  on  the  cover  of  the  bandbox 
in  which  she  had  thrust  the  offending  bonnet  out  of  sight. 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  you're  always  sorryt     Where's  the  pieces?" 

"Down  at  the  bottom.  —  Won't  you,  Aunt  Ildy?  Mayn't 
I  begin  again  ?  " 

"  I've  no  doubt  you  will  begin  again,  the  first  chance  you 
get."  - 

She  knew  well  enough  what  I  meant ;  yet  this  was  all  the 
answer  she  would  give  me,  wresting  my  words  to  a  bitter 
sneer ;  and  so  she  took  the  bonnet,  gathered  up  the  remnants 
of  its  past  identity,  and  walked  away  downstairs. 

I  always  longed  so  to  "  begin  again ; "  to  rub  out  the  old 
mistake  and  misery,  to  prevail  on  the  hard  eyes  to  shut  them- 
selves against  the  past,  and  to  watch  for  and  remember  only 
the  new  and  better  future  that  I  meant  should  be.  Only  One 
does  that  for  us  ;  He  who  "•  blots  out  our  iniquities  and  covers 
our  sins." 

I  used  sometimes,  involuntarily,  to  plead  so,  when  I  failed 
suddenly  in  a  lesson  at  school  that  I  thought  I  knew.  I  used 


30  HITHERTO : 

so  to  entreat  Lucretia,  when  I  had  been  mischievous  in  the 
kitchen,  and  she  threatened  to  tarn  me  out  and  send  me  off 
upstairs.  "  Oh,  let  me  stay  and  begin  again  ! "  It  is  the  ever- 
lasting beseeching  out  of  the  pain  and  shaine  and  the  slow 
struggle  of  humanity. 

Did  Aunt  Ildy  never  need  to  cry  out  in  like  manner  herself 
for  any  failure  in  her  life  ?  I  do  not  know.  It  seemed  to  me 
a  peculiarity  in  her  constitution  that,  having  once  set  out  and 
determined  to  be  rigidly  righteous,  the  possibility  of  her  ever, 
by  any  slip,  or  self-delusion,  or  infirmity,  finding  herself  at 
fault,  after  all,  like  common  unexacting  mortals,  never  even 
faintly  occurred  to  her  from  that  time  forth  ;  as  if,  having  once 
woke  up  early  in  the  morning,  no  getting  behindhand  after- 
ward, through  loss  or  waste  of  the  plentiful  minutes,  could  take 
away  -that  primal  fact,  or  change  the  value  of  her  day. 

Well,  I  could  never  begin  again,  except  in  one  thing,  —  that 
was  my  garter  knitting.  If  I  dropped  a  stitch  and  made  a 
hole  in  that,  I  could  j*avel  out,  and  wind  up,  and  cast  new 
stitches,  and  go  on  until  my  fingers  made  another  blunder. 
"  That  was  all  it  amounted  to,"  Aunt  Ildy  said.  When  she 
dropped  a  stitch  she  knitted  it  right  in  again.  Sometimes  it 
got  turned  and  twisted  in  the  picking  up,  but  that  did  not 
matter.  Nobody  could  find  a  hole  in  her  work,  and  she  never 
ravelled  out. 

I  ate  my  bread  and  butter.  I  had  my  pear  and  my  peach 
for  sauce ;  and  presently  something  more  came  through  the 
window:  one  at  a  time,  two  long,  brown,  spicy,  twisted 
doughnuts.  Mrs.  Hathaway  made  them  in  rings  and  balls,  as 
well  as  twists ;  but  Richard  remembered  that  I  liked  twists 
best.  It  was  better  fun  than  Aunt  Ildy  knew  ;  and  since  she 
would  not  let  me  be  sorry  and  begin  again,  I  put  that  off,  and 
took  such  unsanctified  comfort  as  I  could  get. 

I  got  up  early  the  next  morning,  without  forbiddance.  In 
truth  I  had  been  restless  from  before  dajdight.  One  cannot 
begin  at  four  in  the  afternoon  and  lie  still  much  beyond  the 
same  hour  in  the  morning  ;  and  Aunt  Ildy  wanted,  no  doubt, 
a  last  nap  undisturbed.  So  I  dressed  and  went  downstairs. 

The  best  room  door  was  partly  open  as  I  went  by,  and  I 


A   STORY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  31 

peepea  in.  There  was  an  old-fashioned,  round-framed,  con- 
vex mirror  over  the  chimne}7,  in  which  you  saw  yourself  di- 
minished and  far  off.  This  was  a  great  wonder  and  delight  to 
me.  I  ventured  in  to  take  a  little  prance  before  it.  But 
I  was  stopped,  aghast,  at  what  I  saw  upon  the  table  beneath 
the  window.  My  bonnet,  re  —  what  shall  I  say?  —  resur- 
rected ;  dug  up  again,  'as  it  were,  very  much  the  worse,  as  to 
its  old  form  and  idea,  for  having  been  buried.  There  are  two 
things  that  not  all  the  king's  horses  nor  all  the  king's  men  can 
ever  do  in  this  world,  —  set  Humpty  Dumpty  up  again,  or  re- 
combine  an  old  garnishing  of  bits  and  ends  that  have  faded 
here,  and  crumpled  there,  and  come  to  a  certain  unity  of  shab- 
biness,  into  anything  like  unity  again.  The  last  state  of  that 
bonuet  is  worse  than  the  first.  To  this  last  state  had  Aunt 
Ildy's  remorseless,  retributive  fingers  brought  the  remains  of 
mine.  I  could  have  cried  ;  but  it  was  funny.  It  looked  like 
an  old  bird  that  had  had  a  fight ;  or  like  an  excited  porcupine 
with  two  flabby  tails.  It  bristled  and  it  draggled  at  once.  I 
wondered  if  she  would  actually  make  me  wear  it.  While  I 
stood  there,  Richard  walked  along  the  hall,  and  saw  me  and 
came  in. 

"  Just  look  !  "  I  said  ;  and  then  I  made  a  little  unexpected 
sort  of  sound,  a  "  boo-higgle,"  I  used  to  call  it,  when  I  half 
began  to  cry,  and  laughed  in  the  middle  of  it.  "  I  had  a  pres- 
ent of  such  a  beautiful  ribbon,  and  I  put  it  on  ;  and  Aunt 
Ildy  has  gone  and  made  it  back  again  into  this." 

Richard  Hathaway  took  it  up  on  his  broad  hand  and  turned 
it  round. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  in  his  quiet  way,  "  I  always  thought  Miss 
Chism  was  a  smart  woman."  That  was  all  the  notice  he  took 
of  it ;  and  he  laid  it  back,  the  limp  gauze  strings  trailing 
down  forlornly  from  the  table.  Whether  that  first  suggested 
what  came  after,  or  whether  he  had  seen  her  at  it  the  night 
before,  and  had  ample  time  for  inspirations,  I  don't  know  ; 
but  he  took  me  off  to  the  barn,  and  diverted  my  mind  with 
chickens,  and  gray  and  white  kittens,  and  Munchausen,  his 
little  spaniel  puppy.  I  asked  him  what  he  called  him  so  for, 


32  HITHERTO : 

and  he  laughed,  and  said  Jabez  thought  it  was  a  good  name, 
"  'cause  he  was  allers  munchin'  and  chawin'." 

I  saw  the  cows  milked  ;  and  I  milked  one,  to  the  extent  of 
a  teaspoonful,  myself;  and  I  drank  a  mug  full  of  white,  warm, 
foaming  milk,  and  then  dipped  off  pure  froth  and  sipped  it ; 
and  I  stood  on  a  big  rock  iu  the  middle  of  the  barn-yard,  and 
watched  the  whole  herd  turned  off  down  the  green  lane  to  find 
their  pasture  ;  and  then  we  went  in  to  breakfast. 

Richard  brought  Munchausen  in  and  fed  him  in  the  kitchen. 
Aunt  Ildy  came  down,  and  while  Mrs.  Hathaway  took  the 
brown,  sweet  biscuits  out  of  the  bake-kettle,  —  (there  are  no 
biscuits  now  so  sweet  as  those  that  used  to  come  to  their  per- 
fection so,  with  the  fervid  embers  heaped  below  and  the  coals 
of  fire  upon  their  heads) ,  —  we  all  stood  round  the  kitchen 
hearth  and  warmed  ourselves,  for  it  was  a  cool  autumn  morn- 
ing ;  and  then  we  went  into  the  little  tea-room,  which  was  also 
breakfast-room,  and  night  and  morning  condensed  themselves 
together  into  an  excess  of  content  for  me.  Richard  went 
round  through  the  hall  to  turn  Mun  out  at  the  front  door.  He 
shut  the  breakfast-room  door  after  him  when  he  came  in,  to 
keep  out  Mun  and  the  wind,  he  said. 

Mun,  or  the  wind,  or  both,  got  in  somewhere  else,  while  we 
were  at  breakfast,  where  a*  door  had  not  been  shut. 

When  we  came  out  to  get  the  sunshine  in  the  broad  porch, 
there  was  a  great  battle  still  going  on ;  a  growling,  and  a 
rushing,  and  a  tearing,  and  a  worrying,  all  up  and  down  the 
grass-plat ;  and  Munchausen  had  got  the  best  of  it ;  the 
strange  thing  with  ears  all  over  it  and  the  two  long  tails,  as 
he  doubtless  considered  it,  that  had  dared  and  enticed  him  by 
its  bristling  and  fluttering  when  he  and  the  wind  looked  in  at 
the  door,  had  drawn  its  own  destruction  down.  Neither  Aunt 
Ildy,  nor  the  politicians  of  to-day,  could  ever  have  recon- 
structed that. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  cried  out  Richard,  running  after  the  dog,  and 
dragging  a  mouthful  of  straw  and  munched  rag  from  him. 

"  What  is  it?"  repeated  Aunt  Ildy,  half  in  doubt  herself,  at 
first,  and  then  turning  a  swift  scrutiny  on  me.  "Why,  it's 
Anstiss  Dolbeare's  bonnet !  That's  what  it  is."  As  much  as 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  33 

to  say,  "  Could  a  dog's  enormity  go  further  than  that?     And 
now  be  astounded,  if  you  please  !  " 

"  Is  it  much  hurt?"  asked  Richard  Hathaway,  holding  it  up, 
and  speaking  innocently. 

I  never  had  such  a  good  time  before  in  all  my  child-life  as 
I  had  wandering  off  through  the  sunny  fields  and  sweet-smell- 
ing orchards  in  my  cape-bonnet,  that  day,  with,  him.  Jabez 
drove  Mrs.  Hathaway  and  Aunt  Ildy  to  Broadfields,  to  meet- 
ing ;  and  it  was  four  o'clock  when  they  came  home  to  the  Sun- 
day tea-dinner. 

Richard  and  I  had  carried  our  luncheon  with  us,  of  dough- 
nuts and  sage-cheese  and  peaches  ;  and  had  eaten  it  sitting  on 
a  great  gray  rock  by  the  river. 
3 


34  HITHERTO : 


CHAPTER  III. 

» 

SOME   PEOPLE,    AND    OTHER   PEOPLE. 

NOBODY  would  have  believed  after  all  this,  —  I  certainly 
would  not  have  believed  it  beforehand,  —  that  the  very  next 
Sunday  I  should  go  to  meeting  in  New  Oxford,  with  Aunt 
Ildy,  wearing  a  new  Dunstable  straw  bonnet,  with  the  identical 
blue  scarf  tied  across  it,  by  Augusta  Hare's  own  hands. 

It  was  Augusta  Hare  who  did  it.  Of  course  I  told  her  all 
my  troubles  Monday  morning,  when  she  walked  "  down  street " 
with  the  Edgells  and  me  on  our  way  to  school.  "We  had  come 
in  from  the  farm  before  breakfast,  —  before  Uncle  Royle's, 
that  is  ;  for  Mrs.  Hathaway  would  by  no  means  let  any  guest 
depart  from  her  door  fasting ;  and  we  had  had  the  nice  biscuits 
out  of  the  bake-kettle,  and  the  coffee  straight  from  the  trivet 
over  the  coals,  and  brown-bread  cream  toast,  and  baked  beans, 
left  over  the  Sunday  dinner,  stirred  to  a  delicious  crispness  in 
the  spider,  at  a  quarter  to  six,  and  at  a  few  minutes  after  the 
hour  had  been  on  our  way ;  our  wheels  making  clean  lines 
along  the  fresh,  damp  road,  where  the  heavy  dew  had  very 
nearly  been  a  white  frost ;  and  all  the  clearness  and  tingle  and 
sparkle  of  far-off,  rime-touched  mountains  and  wide,  breezy 
lakes  coming  down  about  us  in  the  morning  wind  from  the 
north-west. 

Everybody  was  worth  winning  to  Augusta  Hare.  The  more 
difficult  the  approach,  the  more  persevering  would  be  her  par- 
allels. She  had  set  to  work  to  win  Aunt  Ildy.  I  wished  her 
joy,  at  first,  in  her  attempt ;  then  I  stood  by,  wondering  at 
her  success. 

The  truth  was,  Miss  Chism  was  like  the  moon,  —  she  had  two 
faces ;  one  turned  always  toward  those  she  immediately  be- 
longed to,  as  she  went  round  and  round  in  her  uncompromis- 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  35 

ing  orbit  qf  daily  work  and  duty  ;  the  other  toward  the  universe 
at  large.  The  moon  analogy  fails  here,  or  rather  becomes  a 
mysteiy  ;  whether  she  also  wear  a  blander  look  out  into  space, 
toward  the  distant  planets,  —  the  desolation  of  her  crags  and 
craters  being  all  heaped  up  on  her  earthward  side,  —  niay 
be  or  may  not ;  one  cannot  change  one's  position  to  remark  ; 
but  when  I  saw  Aunt  Ildy  from  the  stand-point  of  any  who 
approached  her  from  the  outside  spaces  about  our  own  life,  I 
marvelled  at  what  a  little  strangerhood  could  do.  She  seemed 
ready  to  accredit  such  with  all  the  virtues  and  graces  that 
made  up  her  ideal  measure,  by  which  such  human  creatures  as 
had  been  closely  proved  and  tried  had  miserably  and  ignomin- 
iously  failed.  There  were  nicks  and  blemishes  and  parts 
missing ;  the  pieces,  therefore,  must  be  somewhere.  She  took 
it  for  granted  that  the  Edgells  were  all  that  I  was  not.  If  I 
quoted  them,  thinking  to  make  argument  and  precedent  in  my 
own  behalf,  I  only  got  the  consequent  crushing  comparison. 

"  Yes  ;  they  have  it ;  but  I  suppose  they  take  care  of  their 
things,"  or,  "  they  do,  or  go,  thus  and  thither,  to  be  sure ;  but 
they  are  to  be  trusted ;  they  behave." 

I  know  of  nothing  at  once  more  exasperating  and  demoral- 
izing to  a  child  than  this ;  it  either  knows  a  great  deal  better, 
and  that  its  companions  are  subject  to  all  the  like  infirmities 
with  itself,  and  therefore  impotently  rages  against  the  injus- 
tice ;  or  it  comes  to  think,  at  last,  cowed  by  continual  dispar- 
agement and  condemnation,  that  it  is  different  from  and 
meaner  than  its  fellows,  and  so  to  sink  into  a  hopeless,  cring- 
ing, effortless  self-despite. 

Augusta  Hare  came  over  that  very  Monday  afternoon  with 
a  basket  of  fine  Bartlett  pears  for  Aunt  Ildy  from  her  uncle's 
garden,  with  Mrs.  Edgell's  love  and  compliments ;  also,  she 
wanted  one  of  Miss  Chism's  wonderful  receipts  ;  she  gave  a 
hint,  with  an  air  of  confidence  and  a  half-aside  from  me,  that 
she  was  making  up  a  manuscript  receipt-book  for  herself, 
against  one  of  these  days  when  she  might  come  to  want  it ; 
and  Miss  Chism's  nod,  and  relaxing,  benignant  smile  toward 
her,  and  the  hardness  on  the  side  of  the  face  next  me,  as  if 
it  were  quite  a  pretty  and  natural  thing  for  Augusta  so 


86  HITHERTO : 

to  look  forward,  but  that  I  need  not  pretend  to  understand 
or  to  be  interested  in  what  not  only  now,  but  at  any  distant 
period  whatever,  could  by  no  possibility  concern  such  as  I,  — 
that,  in  fact,  it  was  a  presumption  in  me  to  be  sitting  by  while 
she  said  it,  or  even  to  be  living  and  growing  up  in  a  world 
where  marrying  and  giving  in  marriage  and  having  a  house 
and  a  way  and  a  life  of  one's  own  could  come  to  be  in  ques- 
tion, —  was  a  marvellous  and  moonlike  thing  to  see.  But  at 
that  time  I  had  not  yet  studied  astronomy ;  I  only  felt  un- 
happy, and  that  I  was  on  the  rough,  craggy,  cratery  side,  as 
usual. 

Never  mind.  Augusta  beamed  and  sparkled,  and  was 
shone  upon.  And  so  she  came  round  to  the  bonnet. 

She  apologized  so  prettily  for  the  liberty  that  perhaps  she 
had  taken  ; "  but  Miss  Chism  had  not  been  by  to  ask,  and  she 
knew  she  was  very  busy.  She  was  so  used  to  trimming  and 
untrimming  for  herself,  alone  in  the  world  as  she  was,  that  she 
never  considered  ;  and  didn't  Miss  Chism  think  it  was  a  good 
thing  for  girls  to  learn  a  knack  of  the  sort,  of  contrivance  and 
taste  for  themselves  ?  They  could  have  so  much  more  variety, 
and  it  saved  so  much  trouble  and  expense." 

That  last  word,  coming  with  such  a  charming  deference  to 
the  duty  of  economy  from  the  young  heiress  of  a  whole  street- 
full  of  stores  in  H ,  and  of  unknown  bank  shares,  finished 

it  with  Aunt  Ikty.  It  was  like  a  decorous  occasional  rever- 
ence manifested  toward  things  sacred  by  a  non-professor. 

"  That  was  true,"  she  said,  "where  people  had  a  knack, 
and  would  not  be 'always  wasting  and  spoiling.  But  the  vari- 
ety, she  didn't  know  about.  She  liked  to  wear  things  straight 
through,  and  make  them  last  the  season." 

"Oh,  do  you?"  asked  Augusta,  with  the  most  charming 
candor  and  confidence.  "  Well,  now  I  do  like  changing,  if  it's 
only  to  put  a  bow  on  the  other  side,  or  move  my  bed  across 
my  chamber.  I'm  always  turning  things  round  ;  for  my  part 
it  seems  to  make  them  nicer  and  last  longer." 

"  It's  very  well  to  wear  a  carpet  even,"  admitted  Aunt  Ildy, 
briefly. 

(The  very  next  day,  upon  the  strength  of  this,  I  tried  it  by 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  37 

putting  the  washstand  and  table  in  new  places  in  our  room, 
when  I  was  sent  up  to  make  the  bed ;  but  the  noise  I  made 
brought  up  Auntlldy,  as  if  it  had  been  an  incantation.  "  Isn't 
that  pleasanter?"  I  said,  timidly.  "And  you  can  get  to  the 
closet  easier."  —  "Are  you  possessed,  Anstiss  Dolbeare  ?  Put 
those  things  back  ;  and  when  I'm  ready  for  you  to  keep  house 
for  me,  I'll  let  you  know  ! "  So  I  found  out,  speedily  enough, 
that  some  people  are  not  other  people.) 

,  Augusta  was  "  so  sorry  to  find  that  there  had  been  an  acci- 
dent, —  that  the  bonnet  was  quite  spoiled.  She  was  going  down 
to  the  city  with  her  uncle  on  Wednesday,  and  could  she  do 
anything  about  replacing  it  for  Miss  Chism  ?  " 

41  Perhaps  she  could  get  something  prettier  and  cheaper  than 
in  New  Oxford,  and  the  new  fall  styles  would  be  out  there." 

"  Didn't  Miss  Chism  think  a  Dunstable  would  be  better  for 
cool  weather,  and  more  durable  ?  It  could  always  be  bleached 
and  pressed  so  nicely,  you  know." 

And  when,  by  degrees,  she  had  brought  Miss  Chism  to  listen 
indulgently  to  all  this,  —  "wouldn't  she,  to  show  she  wasn't 
offended,  just  let  Anstiss  wear  the  blue  ribbon,  after  all?  " 

All  this  by  degrees,  as  I  say,  carefully  feeling  her  steps. 
She  stayed  to  tea,  and  praised  Aunt  Ildy's  drop-cakes,  and  fell 
in  love  with  the  pink-edged  cups,  and  insisted  on  having  a 
towel  and  helping  to  wipe  them  up  afterward,  and  she  wanted 
to  learn  cribbage,  and  got  her  first  initiation  into  the  mysteries 
of  "  fifteen  two,  fifteen  four,"  while  she  was  bringing  it  about ; 
and  the  end  was,  almost  without  Aunt  Ildy  knowing  it,  that 
she  was  led  round  to  the  very  point  she  had  set  herself  against. 
Only  it  was  a  concession  to  Augusta  Hare,  and  to  circum- 
stances, and  by  no  means  for  the  sake  of  pleasing  me.  The 
gauze  ribbons  were  chewed  up  ;  and  the  blue  scarf  now  was 
"  in  the  house."  Aunt  Ildy  could  not  have  so  gone  against 
her  creed  and  her  instinct  as  to  "  buy  new  when  old  would 
do."  It  had  been  on  and  off,  and  laid  by  ;  it  was  old  now,  in 
a  sense  ;  the  idea,  at  least,  had  ceased  to  be  so  offensively  new 
to  Aunt  Ildy,  and  her  indignation  had  been  appeased.  I  sat 
by,  and  let  them  settle  it ;  as  if,  through  my  fault  and  my 
punishment  and  my  mortification,  it  had  ceased  to  be  of  much 


38  HITHERTO  I 

consequence  to  me  how  they  decided.  I  did  not  do  this,  I 
think,  of  deliberate  art,  but  as  simply  taking  the  attitude  Aunt 
Ildy  would  expect  of  me  ;  and  so  things  came  round. 

Only  I  was  worse  off  by  a  suffering  and  a  disappointment, 
and  a  chilled,  repulsed,  inferior  feeling,  and  a  premature 
lesson  in  diplomacy,  and  Aunt  Ildy  by  the  price  of  a  new 
Dunstable  straw  bonnet. 

I  wonder  why  such  trifling  episodes  as  these  stand  out  first 
and  most  clearly  when  I  think  of  those  young  days?  All  my 
life,  to  be  sure,  was  made  up  of  small,  commonplace  things ; 
but  why  these  should  so  live  and  last,  stamped  so  ineffaceably 
in  their  least  details,  —  that  is  what  surprises  me  sometimes. 
Ah,  it  is  not  the  form  life  takes,  but  the  living !  Under  these 
trifles  of  outward  experience,  something  intense  and  in- 
eradicable was  shaping  and  vitalizing ;  the  moods  and  im- 
pressions which  these  influences  induced  were  becoming  my 
self;  were  determining  my  whole  nature  and  fate. 

I  used  to  wonder,  in  a  vague  way,  if  ever  things  would 
begin  to  concern  me  as  they  concerned  others.  If  I  should 
ever  have  a  definite  part  —  an  interest  of  my  own  —  in  this 
earnest,  urgent  living  that  I  saw  about  me  in  a  world  upon 
whose  mere  skirts,  as  yet,  I  seemed  to  hang.  I  think  Aunt 
Ildy  would  have  been  frightened  sometimes,  if  she  could  have 
known  the  turn  my  repressed  and  restless  thoughts  and  half- 
understood  longings  were  taking.  I  used  to  like  to  walk  in 
the  burial-ground,  I  remember;  the  "graveyard"  as  we  used 
lugubriously  to  call  it  then,  when  churches  were  meeting- 
houses ;  and  I  used  to  feel  sure  of  that  one  thing  only ;  that 
this,  at  least,  would  come  to  me,  as  it  came  to  all ;  that  I 
should  lie  there  with  a  gravestone  at  my  head  ;  and  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  should  be  of  more  consequence  then  than  I  had 
ever  been  before.  I  even  wondered  if  Aunt  Ildy  would  think 
things  "worth  while,"  then,  for  me,  as  for  anybody  else? 
Whether  she  would  let  a  gravestone  be  carved,  and  whether  she 
would  really  wear  a  black  bonnet,  if  I  died  ?  I  could  not  some- 
how conceive  of  her  doing  so,  only  for'  me.  So  many  things 
now,  in  my  lifetime,  never  were  worth  while. 

Augusta  Hare  went  away  from  New  Oxford  at  last,  in  a 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  39 

fresh  grandeur  and  environment  of  dignity  and  romance. 
After  many  indecisions  about  the  school  to  which  she  should 
be  sent,  her  own  strong  wish  had  carried  the  day  against  some 
prejudices  of  her  uncle,  and  it  was  decided  for  her  to  go  to 
the  Convent  of  Ursuliue  nuns  at  Charlestown,  near  Boston. 
Her  musical  education,  in  which  there  was  a  real  talent  to  be 
taken  into  account,  was  the  chief  consideration  in  influencing 
this  result. 

For  nights,  I  could  not  sleep  soundly,  after  I  heard  of  this. 
My  imagination  was  stirred  by  all  that  was  most  poetical  and 
picturesque  ;  to  say  nothing  of  the  religious  element,  which 
added  sublimity  and  awe.  To  live  among  cloistered  women 
wearing  solemn,  typical  black  veils,  to  call  them  Sister  Mary 
and  Sister  Agnes  and  Sister  Annunciata,  as  they  were  called 
in  the  stories  I  had  read,  to  hear  matins  and  vespers,  to  wor- 
ship in  a  chapel,  to  eat  in  a  refectory,  to  recite  lessons  to 
people  who  had  just  done  mystical  penance  !  To  have  all 
this  combined  with  the  charm  of  ordinary  boarding-school 
association,  so  great  to  me,  —  girls  of  an  age  classed  together 
for  study,  for  recreation,  for  sleep  evenj  —  having  the  com- 
munity and  sympathy  in  all  things  which  made  even  rigid 
rules  a  delight,  and  stealthy  grumblings  and  stolen  privileges 
an  ecstasy  !  I  got  all  this  jumble  of  fanciful  ideas  into  my 
head,  and  at  this  time  there  was  nothing  that  seemed  so 
beautiful  or  so  intensely  desirable  to  me  as  to  go  to  a  convent ; 
as  a  nun,  if  possible  ;  at  least,  as  a  scholar.  I  was  so  proud 
of  Augusta  Hare's  notice,  and  of  knowing  her  so  well !  I 
told  Lucretia,  over  and  over,  all  that  this  heroine  of  mine  could 
tell  to  me,  for  the  mere  pleasure  of  saying  the  words  ;  I  dare 
say,  although  she  was  older  and  more  sensible,  and  used  to 
remarkable  things,  Augusta's  own  pleasure  in  answering  my 
curiosity  was  not  so  very  different. 

The  Edgells  went  away  to  school  soon  after ;  they  were  dis- 
appointed in  not  being  with  their  cousin  ;  but  though  he  had 
3'ielded  in  her  case,  Mr.  Edgell  was  firm  as  regarded  Ids 
daughters.  It  happened  at  last  that  they  and  Laura  Cope 
became  pupils  at  the  same  institution,  a  }roung  ladies'  semi- 
nary in  a  town  some  thirty  miles  from  New  Oxford. 


40  HITHERTO : 

I  speni  an  afternoon  with  them  just  before  they  left.  I  saw 
their  new  trunks  with  their  own  names  upon  them,  packed 
with  all  manner  of  nice,  plentiful  clothing,  to  be  worn  at  their 
own  discretion,  arid  with  numberless  articles  of  ladylike  con- 
venience suggested  by  motherly  forethought  or  their  own 
wish.  How  beautifully  their  ruffles  were  all  crimped !  I  saw 
Mrs.  Edgell  doing  one  with  a  delicate,  thin-bladed,  ivory  knife, 
as  she  sat  in  her  little  sewing-room  where  the  girls  ran  in  and 
out,  bringing  me  with  them,  asking  half  a  hundred  questions, 
and  contriving  dozens  of  new  wants.  She  was  not  impatient 
with  them  ;  her  pleasure  was  in  theirs.  Oh,  yes  ;  it  was  the 
really  poetical  and  beautiful  thing  to  have  an  own  mother ! 

I  went  "  down  street  "  with  them  to  the  confectioner's, 
where  they  laid  in  store  of  "  goodies  "  to  take  to  school.  They 
spent,  I  think,  three  dollars  apiece,  that  afternoon  ;  and  we 
came  home  laden  with  fragrant  white  paper  parcels.  There 
were  things  among  them  that  I  never  had  heard  the  names  of 
before ;  but  then,  I  had  never  had  three  dollars  in  my  life  to 
spend  in  confectionery,  or  at  my  own  pleasure  in  any  way. 

After  this,  my  days  "went  on  and  on."  If  I  could  escape 
disgrace  with  Aunt  Ildy,  and  get  into  Lucretia's  room  in  the 
afternoon  with  my  mending,  or  into  the  garden  with  a  book, 
it  was  the  sum  of  my  desire  and  expectation.  My  lessons 
were  a  pleasure  to  me  ;  I  was  ambitious  and  bright.  I  could 
learn  fast,  and  keep  the  head  of  my  class.  I  brought  home  my 
weekly  reports,  and  Uncle  Royle  signed  them  ;  he  would  have 
a  kind  word  for  me  when  they  were  all  "  sixes  and  sevens," 
which,  contrary  to  proverbial  usage,  indicated  the  best  possi- 
ble order  of  things  on  Mr.  B 's  book ;  as  to  Aunt  Ildy,  I 

don't  remember  her  even  looking  at  them.  She  inspected  my 
stockings,  after  I  had  darned  them  ;  and  they  had  need  to  be 
firmly  done^even  to  an  improvement  on  the  original  texture  ; 
for  if  her  strong  fingers  could  go  through  a  thin  place,*or  make 
themselves  visible  under  a  careless  cross-threading,  there 
would  be  no  saving  of  time  for  me  in  that !  I  accused  her 
sometimes,  with  rebellious  indignation,  of  punching  holes  ;  it 
occurs  to  me  that  her  fashion  of  moral  inspection  and  criticism 
was  not  far  otherwise. 


A    STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  41 

» 

I  wore  my  Dunstable  straw  with  the  blue  ribbon  all  the  way 
on  into  November  until  Thanksgiving.  I  got  tired  to  death 
of  it ;  I  believe  Aunt  Ildy  knew  I  would,  and  that  that  was 
part  of  my  punishment.  She  gave  me  my  request,  but  sent 
leanness  into  my  soul.  It  had  been  a  very  pretty  passing 
fashion,  retained  only  just  so  long  as  it  could  be  what  it  ex- 
pressed, a  freshness  and  an  unpremeditation  ;  an  impromptu 
of  trimming,  caught  up  and  put  on  carelessly ;  but  it  came, 
with  me,  to  be  a  thing  as  old  and  worn  as  a  shoe-string.  I 
had  to  tie  it  on  myself  ever}'  time  I  wore  my  bonnet ;  and  I 
had  not  Augusta  Hare's  adroit  fingers.  The  ropy  part 
twisted  itself  longer  and  longer  with  every  wearing,  and  the 
wrinkles  came  down  into  the  floating  ends  ;  the  bow  withered, 
and  would  not  stay  picked  out.  It  came  to  ironing,  and  the 
whole  looked  streaked  and  faded.  Other  girls  had  new  fall 
trimmings  of  Bright  crimsons  and  warm  browns,  crossed 
snugly  around  the  crowns,  and  nice  bows  made  once  for  all  on 
the  top  ;  while  I  put  my  bonnet  on  still,  as  I  said  privately  to 
Lucretia,  with  a  garter.  It  was  the  bare  prose  that  all  things 
came  to,  for  me. 

I  began  to  wish,  at  scarcely  thirteen,  that  I  could  be  really 
good  enough  not  to  care  for  anything.  I  had  been  good,  a 
little,  several  times  already,  and  given  it  up.  In  moments  of 
spiritual  depression,  therefore,  I  feared,  already,  lest  all  should 
be  over  with  me,  and  that  I  could  never  be  saved.  I  thought 
I  must  be  the  one  unmitigated  thing  or  the  other ;  that  if  I 
gave  a  thought  to  my  new  shoes,  or  took  it  into  my  head  to 
curl  my  hair,  or  cared  for  my  composition  getting  the  highest 
mark  and  being  read  out  on  a  Saturday,  that  I  might  as  well 
leave  off  reading  ray  Bible  and  saying  my  prayers.  Indeed, 
I  truly  believed  that  I  should  be  a  hypocrite  if  I  kept  on .  I 
must  go  in  at  the  wicket-gate  with  Christian,  and  follow  the 
toilsome  way,  or  I  must  stay  in  the  City  of  Destruction,  and 
live  the  life  of  it.  I  must  choose  between  the  "  Pilgrim's  Prog- 
ress "  and  my  dear  old  novels  ;  and  so  it  would  be  that  some- 
times one  and  sometimes  the  other  would  get  the  better  of  it 
with  me.  Aunt  Ildy  believed  in  nothing  that  I  did.  She 
could  see,  of  course,  when  I  was  "  trying  ;  "  she  gave  me  no 


42  HITHERTO: 

credit  for  it  "H  at  the  time, — it  was  only  one  of  my  whims  ; 
she  helped  my  unsteadiness  with  no  Christianly  patience  ;  but 
I  heard  of  it  afterward,  when  I  had  grown  bad  again ;  she 
"  thought  the  goodness  wouldn't  last  long." 

I  wondered  what  the  real  world-and-devil-proof  goodness 
was  made  of;  what  it  was  w"»s  that  happened  to  people  who 
were  truly  converted. 

There  was  an  awakened  religious  interest  in  the  town  this 
very  winter  ;  there  were  Thursday  prayer-meetings  for  church- 
members,  which  Aunt  Ildy  attended,  and  there  were  Bible- 
classes  and  inquiry-meetings  for  the  young.  I  went  regularly 
every  Wednesday,  at  one  time,  to  the  minister's  house  ;  this 
was  when  my'bonnet  was  at  the  worst.  I  heard  of  one  after 
another  having  become  hopeful,  —  between  night  and  morn- 
ing, perhaps  ;  it  was  the  news  at  school.  I  looked  wonderingly 
at  companions  who  yesterday  were  sinners  and  to-day  were 
saints.  I  questioned  why,  with  the  same  means  of  grace,  and 
the  same  wish  and  effort  as  I  believed,  it  did  not  come  to  me. 
I  kept  on  patiently  for  a  while,  thinking  that  it  would  ;  but  I 
could  never  honestly  declare  that  it  had.  I  was  tempted  pro- 
fanely to  compare  it  with  Augusta  Hare's  boarding-school 
pudding,  which  she  had  declined,  for  the  reason  that  she  saw 
it  wouldn't  go  round  ;  indeed,  precisely  what  I  was  to  look  for, 
of  intense  illumination  or  ecstasy,  or  vital,  conscious,  imme- 
diate change,  was  to  me  the  mystery ;  and  at  last,  one  cold 
Sunday,  Aunt  Ildy  brought  out  my  wine-colored  merino  coat 
that  I  had  worn  three  winters,  and  my  bonnet,  to  which  had 
been  given  the  day  before  its  contemporary  winter  fittings  of 
the  same  color,  —  lining  of  good,  thick,  old-fashioned  satin,  and 
trimming  of  narrow  velvet  bands,  —  in  which  I  felt  always 
better  dressed  than  in  anything  else  I  ever  wore  ;  and  I  became 
suddenly  and  hopelessly  worldly  again.  Because  I  did  take 
comfort  in  them,  after  the  pale,  stringy,  tiresome  blue  ribbon, 
and  such  comfort  was  incompatible  with  the  renouncing  of  the 
flesh.  Such  was  my  religious  experience  at  thirteen.  Out  of 
it  I  came  honest,  and  that  was  all. 

Speculatively,  I  was   at  work,  even  then,  upon  matters  of 
faith.     These  came  to  me  by  suggestion,  in  my  daily  studies. 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  43 

I  was  learning  chemistry  this  winter,  and  at  the  same  time, 
Paley's  "  Natural  Theology  ;"  all  about  the  watch, —  in  that  first 
page,  which,  of  whatever  book,  comes  to  be  the  page  by  heart 
of  the  youthful  reader  or  student,  —  and  then  about  the  bones  ; 
in  the  other  science,  about  the  attractions,  the  affinities,  the 
atomic  theory,  and  the  forms  of  matter,  —  solids,  fluids,  and 
gases  ;  and  what  Swedenborgianism  calls  the  "  correspondence 
of  things "  began  to  show  itself  to  me.  I  had  not  got  far 
among  the  bones  ;  but  an  older  class  was  near  the  end  of  the 
book  ;-and  one  day,  —  I  was  in  the  upper  room  of  the  academy 
now,  —  there  happened  a  talk  between  this  class  and  Mr. 

B ,  our  teacher.     Their  lesson  for  the  day  occurred  in  the 

chapter  on  the  Personality  of  the  Deity.  The  talk  was  upon 
the  different  mental  conceptions  of  God  ;  the  image  under 
which  we  think  of  him,  since  some  image,  consciously  or  un- 
consciously, we  must  make  to  ourselves.  He  was  spoken  of  as 
pure,  pervading  spirit,  everywhere  and  in  all  things;  "in 
whom  we  live  and  move  and  have  our  being,"  enfolding  us  as 
the  air  enfolds  the  earth,  filling  all  space,  animating  all  life, 
quickening  all  spirit.  Without  touching  upon  dogma,  in 
which  I  now  think  he  would  not  have  taught  us  as  many  of 

us  were  taught  elsewhere,   Mr.  B spoke  of  all  this,  in 

illustration  of  the  idea  possible  to  us  of  Omnipresent  Being ; 
and  some  girl  asked  suddenly,  crimsoning  with  timidity  as  she 
did  so,  while  I  crimsoned  with  sympathy,  "  If  He  is  every- 
where and  fills  all,  how  can  any  other  spirit  be  created  and 
find  room?" 

I  forget  what  our  teacher  answered  ;  I  do  not  know  that  I 
even  listened  to  it.  I  only  know  that  with  a  sudden  tingle  all 
through  me,  soul  and  body,  what  seemed  a  great  perception 
came  to  me,  —  an  answer  out  of  the  chemical  laws  and  facts 
that  I  was  learning,  —  the  sentence  of  Dalton,  that  "  different 
gases  are  as  vacuums  in  respect  to  each  other ; "  that  space 
does  not  hinder  them ;  that  they  can  diffuse,  one  into  another, 
intermingling,  jret  not  combining ;  coexisting,  and  yet  sepa- 
rate. Behind  this  wonder  of  material  fact,  the  spiritual  truth 
that  was  enshrined  blazed  forth.  I  got  into  my  soul  a  revela- 
tion of  all  possible  spiritual  closeness  and  presence ;  ideas,  old 


44  HITHERTO : 

enough  in  the  world  perhaps,  but  that  filled  me,  seeming  grand 
and  new,  came,  new  and  grand,  to  me ;  I  began  my  life-climb. 
Meanwhile,  pondering  these  things  in  my  heart,  I  remained 
at  the  outside,  but  a  faulty,  fitful  child ;  scarcely  happy  at 
home,  and  of  no  consequence  elsewhere ;  before  whom  the 
world  looked  at  once  tame  and  strange,  barren  and  teeming, 
mystical  and  dreary. 


STORY  OF  YESTERDAYS.  45 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"WHAT   A  VOICE   TELLS. 
THE    SILENT   SIDE. 

A  STORT  by  halves ;  yes  ;  but  that  is  not  altogether  enough 
either.  Something  else  —  a  third  —  must  concern  itself 
now  and  then.  No  matter  how,  no  matter  who  knows  and 
tells,  or  how  they  found  it  out.  Two  halves  do  not  necessa- 
rily make  a  whole  one.  The  world  is  dual,  we  are  told  ;  all  crea- 
tion running  to  pairs  and  complements  ;  oxygen  and  nitrogen, 
oxygen  and  hydrogen  ;  night  and  day,  up  and  down,  right  and 
left ;  but  there  is  alwa}^  something  behind  ;  an  affinity,  a 
force,  a  backbone  ;  chemical  attraction,  centrifugal  and  cen- 
tripetal power,  gravitation,  structural  centre.  That  is  what 
something  or  somebody  has  got  to  be  to  whatever  comes  to  be 
told,  or  to  be  gathered  to  a  unit,  at  last ;  else  it  might  stay  in 
halves,  or  piecemeal,  forever.  Ask  no  questions,  therefore, 
for  conscience'  or  arithmetic's  sake  ;  if  there  be  a  combining 
agency,  it  is  enough ;  whether  it  work  from  sight  or  record, 
hearsay  or  intuition,  or  here  and  there  from  each  and  all.  A 
silent  story  never  will  tell  itself;  not  even,  as  a  story,  to  it- 
self. That  which  wrought  in  thought  and  heart-throbs,  with- 
out words,  which  took  form  in  unnoticed,  unobtrusive  act, 
whose  truest  pathos  was  hidden  under  commonplace,  must  be 
rescued  by  some  undeclared  knowledge  or  insight,  and  trans- 
lated, as  best  it  maybe,  into  words.  It  will  be  only  a  transla- 
tion, after  all.  None  can  repeat  these  things  as  they  truly 
write  themselves,  all  around  us,  in  the  originals. 

Outside  circumstances  also  ;  the  bearing  down  and  closing  in 
of  all  that  shapes  and  alters,  intermingles  with  and  concerns ; 
these  must  round  out  and  perfect  the  meaning,  and  interpret 


46  HITHERTO  : 

for  our  behoof.  Stories  outside  of  stories,  and  beside  them  ; 
that  is  the  way  the  world  is  woven  together. 

Richard  Hathaway  was  jogging  along  up  the  river  road 
towards  Broadfields  from  New  Oxford,  one  winter's  day,  about 
the  time,  or  a  little  later  than  that,  of  these  things  that  Anstiss 
Dolbeare  has  been  remembering. 

The  leather  reins  lay  loosely  along  his  horse's  back ;  the 
horse  taking  way  and  time  for  himself;  the  sleigh-bells  mark- 
ing the  regular  double-beat  upon  the  air  of  his  slow-dropping 
hoofs. 

Richard  Hathaway  was  thinking.  Feeling,  perhaps,  most ; 
that  grand,  unselfish,  loving,  patient,  pitiful  heart  of  his, 
(what  kind  of  a  man,  pray,  do  you  describe  when  you  speak 
of  a  heart  like  that?)  took  the  lead  always;  the  clear,  quiet 
brain  followed,  and  worked  out  the  impulse.  Did  not  prescribe 
it ;  there  is  that  order  and  distinction  of  life  in  the  natural 
history  of  vertebrates,  —  species,  human,  —  albeit  not  laid 
down  in  books  of  the  science.  Richard  Hathaway,  belonging 
to  the  first  of  these  orders  of  life,  —  born,  moreover,  to  a  plain 
sphere  and  simple  duties,  —  was  not  brilliant.  Slow,  perhaps, 
sometimes,  in  coming  to  conclusion  or  opinion ;  never  slow, 
or  slack  in  act,  when  he  saw  the  thing  to  be  done ;  always 
stanch  and  sure ;  right  there;  loyal  to  the  backbone ;  careful 
and  kind  for  his  mother,  for  every  human  creature ;  for  his 
horse  and  his  dog  ;  for  every  chicken  and  kitten  on  the  place. 
All  over  the  farm  the  dumb  creatures  knew  his  ways  and  his 
voice,  and  went  trooping  after  him.  It  seems  to  me  that  the 
nature  of  such  a  man  has  something  of  the  great  divine  ele- 
ment in  it ;  something  that  goes  toward  the  Fatherhood  of 
God  himself,  —  rather  than  anything  small  or  weak,  as  some 
might  say. 

He  was  dressed  in  his  every-day  homespun,  to-day ;  they 
wore  homespun  yet,  of  a  week-day,  the  plain  men  about 
Broadfields  and  New  Oxford,  who  ploughed  their  own  lands 
and  drove  their  own  teams  to  market ;  and  the  hum  of  the 
old  grandmother's  spinning-wheels  was  heard  yet  in  many  an 
upper  chamber.  There  was  nothing,  truly,  in  his  outer  bear- 
ing and  equipment  that  bespoke  him  grand  or  chivalrous  or 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  47 

knightly ;  that  is  why  I  must  translate  the  silent  side.  A 
simple  soul,  come  to  his  young  manhood  half-a-dozen  cen- 
turies too  late  for  vigil  and  accolade,  and  vow  and  emprise  ;  he 
had  not  ridden  forth  that  morning  in  plumed  helmet  and  shining 
armor,  with  lance  in  rest ;  not  even  in  a  chariot-aud-six  like  Sir 
Charles  Grandison  ;  he  had  only  driven  an  old  horse  in  a  large 
wagon-sleigh  to  carry  some  barrels  of  apples  and  some  tubs 
of  cider  apple-sauce  down  to  New  Oxford  for  the  distant  city 
market ;  but  I  will  tell  you  what  he  had  done.  He  knew  of 
somebody  who  needed  him,  and  a  small  kindness  that  he  could 
give  and  never  forgot,  and  he  had  come  back  four  miles 
around  out  of  his  way  in  the  stinging  winter  cold  after  an 
errand  to  the  next  village  below,  that  he  might  return  through 
New  Oxford  ;  that  he  might  stop  again  at  Royle  Chism's,  and 
look  in  at  the  post-office,  where  there  was  precious  little  likeli- 
hood of  anything  more  for  him  since  morning,  when  he  had 
got  two  letters,  his  mail  for  the  week ;  that  he  might  also  go 
in  to  the  back  sitting-room,  and  stay  talking  with  Miss  Chism 
for  nearly  an  hour,  till  Anstiss  came  from  afternoon  school, 
and  he  could  see  for  himself  how  she  was  to-day,  and  give  her 
the  pearmains  he  had  in  his  pocket  for  her,  —  such  pearmains 
as  only  grew  on  the  Hathaway  place,  and  there  on  but  one  old 
tree.  He  hadn't  had  a  chance  fairly  to  see  her  in  the  morning  ; 
only  through  the  kitchen  door,  as  she  sat  there  busy  about 
something  for  Aunt  Ildy,  which  it  would  have  been  a  little 
piece  of  anarchy  for  her  to  leave. 

He  was  riding  home  now,  thinking  some  such  thoughts  as 
these  :  — 

"  Mother  doesn't  know.  How  should  she?  She  doesn't  see 
them  every  week,  or  oftener,  as  I  do.  She  doesn't  see  the 
little  face  light  up,  and  then  the  cowed-down,  miserable  look 
come  over  it,  when  that  woman,  that  ought  to  be  a  mother  to 
her,  comes  near,  and  the  child  don't  dare  to  let  her  notice  that 
she's  taking  a  minute's  comfoi't,  for  fear  it  should  be  cut  short 
and  she  be  ordered  off.  She  always  is  ordered  off.  Why 
can't  she  have  an  idle  minute,  I  wonder?  People  can't  grow 
unless  they  have  a  chance  to  stretch  now  and  then, — men 


48  HITHERTO : 

and  women,  any  more  than  babies  ;  to  say  nothing  of  a  young, 
longing  thing  like  her. 

"Mother  couldn't  interfere,  either,  I  suppose,  if  she  did 
know.  Everybody  says  Miss  Chism  does  her  duty  by  the 
child  ;  and  it's  only  her  way.  I  wonder  if  the  way  people  get 
with  them  isn't  something  to  be  accountable  for,  though? 
I've  no  business  to  think  about  it  perhaps,  not  being  religious  ; 
but  what  if  the  Loi-d  Almighty  did  so  by  us?  What  if  he  had 
a  "  way  "  too,  that  hadn't  any  sunshine,  nor  any  pleasantness, 
nor  any  rest  in  it?  He  might  grind  us  round,  so,  somehow, 
I  dare  say  ;  and  give  us  our  daily  bread,  notwithstanding.  — 
Start  up,  old  Puttertroo.  Nobody  asked  you  to  medi- 
tate. — 

"  I  wish  I  had  her  by  me,  now,  riding  out  to  the  farm  ;  to 
suck  sweet  cider  and  hunt  hens'  eggs,  and  help  mother  make 
her  Thanksgiving.  Why  need  Aunt  Ildy  have  snubbed  her 
so,  if  she  couldn't  be  trusted  to  beat  sponge  cake  ?  She  might 
do  something,  I  guess,  besides  stone  those  eternal  raisins. 
The  way  to  make  folks  trusty  is  to  begin  to  trust.  I'd  trust 
her,  with  that  little,  earnest  pleading  way  of  hers,  if  it  ivas 
the  spoiling  of  a  mess  or  so. 

"  She  thinks  too  much.  She's  continually  worrying  about 
what  fors  and  whys.  Look  in  her  face  sometimes,  you'd  sup- 
pose she  was  twenty.  I'd  like  to  set  the  clock  back  for  her  a 
good  half-dozen  years  ;  she'd  gain,  then. 

"I  wish  Miss  Ildy'd  —  get  married,  or  something  else.  Or 
that  they  might  be  burnt  out,  and  nobody  hurt,  and  not  much 
loss  ;  or  that  somebody  in  England  would  leave  'ern  a  fortune 
that'd  have  to  be  gone  after.  Something  ought  to  come  to 
pass.  I'd  like  to  get  her  home  with  us  awhile.  It's  the  kind 
of  a  place  where  she'd  ought  to  be. 

"  Miss  Ildy  says  she's  fractious  and  flighty  and  impudent. 
I'd  risk  it.  I  never  saw  anything  of  it,  and  I've  seen  her  when 
I  should  have  been  all  three.  'That's  because  it's  you,'  says 
Miss  Chism.  e She  knows  when  to  hold  her  tongue.'  It  seems 
to  me  that's  sufficient,  and  she's  learnt  early.  And  it  would  be 
for  me  —  and  mother. 

"  We  could'nt  do   all   she'd  want,  I   know.     She  wants 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  49 

somebody  to  answer  the  what  foi's.  I  don't  know  as  she'll 
ever  find  that,  though.  It's  more  asking  than  answering  in 
this  world,  in  most  things.  Asking  back  again,  or  asking  on. 
Books  and  sermons  don't  amount  to  much  more. 

"  She  wants  somebody  now,  right  off,  to  make  a  pleasant- 
ness round  her.  That's  what  people  can  do  for  each  other. 
She  don't  seem  to  get  smy  child-comfort.  She's  never  been 
taken  up  in  anybody's  lap.  Miss  Chism  won't  cosset  any- 
thing. She  says  it  gives  kittens  fits.  That  settles  the  matter, 
I  suppose,  for  all  creation. 

"  I  wish  mother  could  see  any  way  to  manage.  '  Winter's  no 
time,'  she  says.  'The  best  room's  cold,  and  Miss  Chism 
wouldn't  think  of  coming.'  But  there's  the  little  press-room 
between  mother's  and  the  kitchen,  if  Nansie  could  only  come 
by  herself.  That's  as  warm  as  need  be,  and  not  lonesome. 

"  They  need  not  be  afraid  about  her  getting  there.  I'd  wrap 
her  up  in  buffaloes  till  she  wouldn't  know  she  was  out  doors. 

"  I'll  try  Miss  Chism  myself.  It'll  never  do  to  stop  her 
school,  and  give  her  nothing  else  to  take  up  her  mind.  She'd 
only  be  pining  after  her  books.  Royle  Chism  is  talking  of  that.% 
'  She's  ailing,'  he  says,  '  and  she  shall  leave  off  studying  and 
have  the  doctor.'  Perhaps  I  could  put  a  kink  into  Royle' s 
head,  and  he  into  the  doctor's.  A  change  is  always  easy  to 
prescribe ;  and  Pulsifeare's  an  honest  old  soul,  who  wouldn't 
shove  aside  common  sense  for  the  sake  of  hanging  on  with 
pills  and  visits. 

"  She  was  pretty  still  and  sober  to-day ;  and  she  went  right 
off  upstairs  with  her  books.  She  did'nt  know  how  long  I'd 
been  waiting.  Perhaps  she'd  missed  a  lesson,  along  of  those 
raisins  in  the  morning.  I  dare  sny  she's  tired  of  the  pear- 
mains  ;  I'll  carry  her  something  else  next  time.  I'll  shell  out 
some  butternuts  and  shagbarks ;  and  maybe  mother'll  make 
some  candy." —  * 

Very  homely  thoughts ;  and  homely  consolations  that  he 
planned.  It  is  plain  that  he  could  put  none  of  the  poetry  that 
Anstiss  Dolbeare  longed  for  against  the  weary  prose  of  her 
life,  is  it  not?  Are  you  sure,  though,  what  the  poetry  of  life 
is,  when  spiritual  analysis  gets  it  down  to  its  very  elements  ? 


50  HITHERTO: 

A  week  later,  there  was  a  great  stir  in  the  little  press-room. 
Boxes  and  trunks  were  drawn  out  from  under  the  broad  shelf  that 
ran  across  one  whole  side,  against  a  window  ;  blankets  and 
comfortables  that  had  been  piled  upon  it  were  taken  down,  and 
all  were  carried  away  to  an  upstairs  room,  and  bestowed  in  a 
large,  light  closet.  The  shelf  itself  was  removed,  and  then 
the  sunlight  got  in  at  the  window,  and  the  little  apartment, 
which  had  used  in  old  times  to  be  a  bedroom,  showed  its  real 
dimensions. 

Richard  and  his  man  Jabez  did  all  this ;  and  then  Mrs. 
Hathaway's  Martha  came  in  and  swept  and  scoured.  A  cot 
bedstead  was  put  up,  and  a  triangular  shelf  across  a  corner, 
beneath  where  the  large  one  had  been,  was  transformed  by 
a  white  cover  and  a  flounce  to  a  quaint  little  dressing-table, 
elegant  enough  in  its  way,  with  a  looking-glass  in  a  carved 
frame  tilted  forward  from  the  angle  above  it,  and  a  great 
ruffled  pin-cushion  lying  before  it,  and  a  silver  candlestick  and 
snuffers  standing  beside.  In  another  corner  was  a  wasli ing- 
stand,  with  a  high  old  china  ewer,  and  broad,  shallow  basin, 
—  buff,  with  delicate  roses  running  and  blowing  all  over 
them.  Richard  remembered  these  old  things,  and  would  have 
them  got  out,  for  lie  knew  they  would  just  suit  Anstiss  Dol- 
beare's  fancy ;  "  and  she's  to  be  pleased,  you  see,  mother ; 
that's  the  main  thing  now  ;  that's  what's  to  do  her  good." 

"  It'll  be  mild  to-morrow,"  he  was  thinking  to  himself,  stop- 
ping there  when  all  was  done,  as  he  came  through  from  Mrs. 
Hathawaj^'s  room,  and  looked  out  at  the  bright  little  window 
that  seemed  to  sparkle  all  over  with  delight  at  its  own  capac- 
ity to  take  in  sunshine  as  fast,  in  proportion,  as  its-  biggers 
and  betters,  when  opportunity  was  given,  and  where  the  long 
slants  from  the  clear  west  struck  through  and  smote  them- 
selves obliquely  upon  the  face  of  the  mirror  opposite,  diverg- 
ing thence  by  just  the  angle  of  reflection  to  light  up  the  roses 
on  the  buff  china,  opposite  again ;  like  a  sort  of  dance-figure 
as  it  was,  leading  up  and  across  till  all  the  little  place  was 
gay,  and  everything  had  had  its  turn. 

"The  wind's  stilled  down,  and  the  sky  looks  mellow.  I'll 
take  the  little  sleigh,  and  the  two  big  robes  and  the  foot-stove. 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  51 

"We'll  get  her  here  just  about  this  time,  and  mother'll  bring 
her  into  this  little  nest,  and  speak  to  her  in  her  kind  way,  and 
make  her  welcome.  It's  a  complete  home  of  itself  where 
mother  is.  She's  a  good  woman.  And  when  you  say  a 
good  woman  you've  said  a  whole  Bible  full.  — 

"  Let  me  see,  though ;  the  little  sleigh?  There's  that  trace 
to  be  mended.  Jabez'll  have  the  small  pung,  and  he'll  want 
a  light  harness  too.  Lucky  I  thought  of  it !  And  it's  a 
chance  if  he's  got  those  carrots  up  from  the  cider-mill  cellar, 
while  I've  been  pntter-kooing  hei'e. 

"  Mun,  you  rascal!  what  are  you  looking  for?  Straw 
bonnets?  Can't  have  'em.  Off  with  you,  sir!  Somebody 
at  the  door,  hey?  Tell 'em  I'm  coming.  —  Hope  it's  Kilham, 
about  that  bargain.  If  I  can  get  him  down  to  sixty,  it'll  be 
three  hundred,  and  that's  enough ;  a  fair  trade  for  both  ;  and 
it  just  squares  my  upland.  Half-a-dozen  years  hence,  if  I've 
any  luck,  it'll  be  the  finest  —  " 

The  silent  side'  is  fragmentary ;  a  man  doesn't  think  on 
in  a  straight  line  through  a  mile-long  chapter  ;  neither  does 
he  think  all  on  one  thread.  Richard  Hathaway  was  a  good 
farmer,  and  a  stirring  man  ;  all  the  more  is  it  proof  of  his 
great  kindness  that  he  could  stay,  as  he  called  it  "  putter- 
kooing"  here. 

Anstiss  Dolbeare  remembers  what  came  next. 


52  HITHERTO: 


CHAPTER  V. 

JASPEE. 

WHAT  a  new  living  it  was  to  me  all  at  once  when  they  let 
me  go  out  to  the  Farm,  that  winter !  Uncle  Royle  and  the 
doctor  and  the  Hathaways  managed  it.  Aunt  Ildy  didn't 
really  object ;  but  she  went  round  with  that  way  of  hers  that 
seemed  to  be  saying  all  the  time,  "  Oh,  yes  ;  you've  contrived  ! " 
It  made  me  have  a  mean,  guilty  feeling  all  the  time  she  was 
packing  up  my  things,  as  if  I'd  stolen  her  cake,  or  something. 

She  always  thought  I  contrived.  I  did  ask  her  for  things 
sometimes,  when  Uncle  Ro.yle  was  in  the  room.  I  saved  up 
my  asking  till  he  was  there,  when  I  wanted  anything  very 
much  indeed  ;  and  I  suppose  this  was  contriving  ;  but  I  always 
asked  her  ;  and  I  never  went  to  him  after  she  had  said  no.  I 
don't  know  but  most  people  would  put  an  umbrella  up,  if  they 
had  one,  when  it  was  likely  to  rain.  I  forgot  the  umbrella 
often  enough,  however,  for  many  a  sprinkle  to  dampen  my 
best  things. 

It  was  as  if  I  had  died  and  gone  to  heaven,  almost. 

The  air  was  so  soft  that  afternoon,  with  the  softness  that 
comes  in  a  south  wind  over  the  snow  ;  so  tender,  so  promising 
of  the  warmth  waiting  somewhere,  and  coming  by  and  by.  In 
an  air  like  that,  yon.  can  seem  to  smell  the  very  blue  of  the 
sky,  and  the  pure  sweetness  of  the  river  water ;  there  are  no 
flowers,  or  grass,  or  leaves  ;  so  where  else  can  the  pleasantness 
come  from?  9 

I  was  almost  too  warm,  wrapped  up  in  the  big  buffaloes ; 
and  Mrs.  Hathaway  had  sent  her  foot-stove,  besides.  Richard 
did  not  tell  me  that  till  we  drove  off.  Aunt  Ildy  had  a  foot- 
stove  too,  and  there  was  a  soapstone  that  she  kept  in  the 
oven ;  but  she  had  not  thought  of  them,  and  it  was  better  not 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  53 

to  say  anything.  I  should  never  have  thought  of  Aunt  Ildy's 
foot-stove  being  warmed  up  for  me.  He  just  tucked  it  under 
ray  feet  after  we  started.  I  suppose  he  got  hot  coals  out  of 
the  office  before  I  came  downstairs.  Richard.  Hathaway  al- 
ways thought  of  everything. 

He  asked  me  if  I  thought  I  could  be  contented.  He  told 
me  of  the  things  that  we  could  do  in  the  evenings ;  he  had 
made  a  fox-and-geese  board  for  me,  with  morrice  on  the  other 
side.  I  didn't  know  morrice,  but  he  would  show  me  ;  and  we 
would  pop  corn,  and  roast  great  sweet  apples,  and  make  candy 
such  as  that  Mrs.  Hathaway  sent  me.  He  would  crack  the 
nuts,  and  I  should  pick  them  out,  while  Mrs.  Hathaway  would 
stir  the  molasses  and  sugar.  And  the  Kilhains  would  come 
over  and  take  tea,  and  we  would  play  games.  I  was  not  to 
think  nor  to  study  ;  but  just  to  be  "  as  little  a  girl  as  I  could,'' 
he  said. 

I  felt  like  such  a  little  girl  while  he  was  talking  !  Such  a 
tj.  little  girl  as  I  had  never,  really,  been.  I  believe  there  is 
something  childish  in  me  now  that  can  go  back  to  that,  if  ever 
anybody  makes  much  of  me,  I  had  so  little  of  it  when  I  was 
small.  I  have  noticed  that  in  myself,  always  ;  that  the  feel- 
ings and  wants  that  got  least  answered  in  the  time  of  them 
kept  freshest  into  the  later  years  ;  al\va}'s  ready  to  live  their 
life  and  take  their  good  whenever  it  could  come.  I  think  it 
may  be  so,  on  beyond  the  grave.  I  think  that  some  of  our 
disappointed  longings  keep  us  fresh  for  what  waits  for  us  there. 

Something  simple  and  sweet  touches  and  fills  me,  thinking 
of  those  days,  and  that  coming  to  the  Hathaways.  I  can  only 
say  over  to  myself  the  things  that  I  remember  then,  in  the 
veiy  easiest  and  most  unpretending  words,  as  a  child  would. 

Mrs.  Hathaway  kissed  me  when  she  lifted  me  out  on  the  door- 
stone.  Nobody  ever  kissed  me  at  home.  Uncle  Ro3rle  never 
thought  of  it,  and  Aunt  Ildy  didn't  approve  of  kissing.  She 
thought  people  could  show  their  love  in  better  ways.  Some- 
times, when  I  had  been  very  sorry  for  some  naughtiness,  and 
meant  truly  to  be  good,  and  thought  if  I  only  had  been  always 
good  Aunt  Ildy  might  have  loved  me,  for  that  she  was  a  good 
woman,  and  said  she  always  loved  what  deserved  it,  —  when 


54  HITHERTO: 

I  wanted  so  to  creep  into  a  little  corner  of  her  heart,  seeing 
that  if  I  hadn't  her  I  hadn't  anybody,  and  to  be  allowed  at 
least  to  care  for  her,  —  I  would  do  something,  some  very  dis- 
agreeable and  tedious  thing  perhaps,  that  she  had  given  me, 
very  nicely  and  patiently,  and  be  very  gentle  and  mindful  all 
day  ;  and  then  at  night  I  would  go  up  to  her  and  put  my  arms 
round  her,  and  kiss  her.  She  would  let  me  do  this,  at  such 
times ;  and  it  made  me  very  happy.  I  don't  remember  her 
ever  kissing  me  back. 

But  Mrs.  Hathaway  kissed  me  on  both  cheeks,  and  then  she 
took  me  through  the  hall  and  the  breakfast-room,  to  a  little 
room  I  never  remembered  seeing  before,  just  beside  the  kitch- 
en and  opening  into  it.  Such  a  dear  little  place  !  A  low  win- 
dow looking  right  out  on  to  a  bank  where  the  white  snow  lay 
then  ;  but  the  green  grass  would  be  in  summer,  and  the  sunset 
streaming  in ;  a  shining  yellow  floor,  and  a  strip  of  warm 
carpet  in  the  middle  ;  a  little  flounced  corner  toilet-table,  and 
a  wash-stand,  with  what  looked  like  a  basket  and  a  vase  of 
roses  to  wash  out  of  and  to  hold  the  water ;  hooks  to  hang 
my  clothes  on,  and  a  door  each  way,  —  into  the  kitchen  and 
her  chamber. 

"  You  won't  mind  my  coming  through,"  she  said.  "  And 
the  kitchen  makes  it  warm." 

"  Everything  makes  it  warm  !  "  I  couldn't  help  answering, 
just  so ;  and  I  turned  round  and  put  up  my  face  to  kiss  her 
again.  Somehow,  one  always  knows  when  one  may  do  that. 
I  have  often  thought  of  it ;  it  is  as  if  the  kiss  were  waiting. 

She  had  made  it  so  beautiful  for  me  !  If  it  were  only  just 
not  a  visit,  but  I  could  live  there  always.  There  was  just 
that  pain  in  it.  It  was  not  really  my  life  ;  but  more  like  the 
afternoons  I  spent  with  the  Edgells,  only  greater ;  a  piece  lent 
me  out  of  other  people's  lives. 

I  remember  how  piercing  cold  it  was  next  morning.  Down 
came  the  wind  from  the  north-west,  — from  the  polar  plains, 
and  the  frozen  lakes,  and  the  great,  bleak  mountain  ridges, 
whose  peaks  are  always  radiating  off  the  warmth  of  the  earth's 
heart  into  space,  and  down  whose  sides  rush  the  fierce  blasts 
that  come  out  of  the  chill  and  emptiness,  angry  at  the  comfort 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  55 

that  nestles  about  sheltered  human  homes,  to  howl  and  shriek 
at  it  and  rend  it  away.  Only  a  little  corner,  here  and  there, 
can  the}'  touch  and  lift,  though,  showing  so  the  deep?  safe 
soul  and  glow  of  it,  in  homes  like  Hathaway  Farmhouse. 

I  remember  how  Richard  came  in  to  the  breakfast-room, 
rubbing  his  hands,  from  his  early  visit  to  the  barns  and«the 
cattle  ;  and  how  we  heard  Jabez  stamping  and  puffing  into  the 
kitchen  ;  how  the  coffee  steamed,  and  how  the  sun  sparkled 
in  through  the  frosted  windows  ;  how  the  old  cat  stretched 
by  the  fire,  and  the  great  logs  crackled  and  hissed  out  froth 
and  steam  at  their  ends,  and  my  forehead  and  cheeks  burned 
as  I  sat  in  the  low  chair  in  the  corner. 

"  Not  a  bit  in  the  way,"  Mrs.  Hathaway  said,  when  I  asked 
her.  I  couldn't  help  feeling  as  if  I  ought  to  move  though, 
and  making  little  involuntary  stirs  every  time  she  came  near. 
I  was  so  used  to  it  with  Aunt  Ildy.  She  always  wanted  some- 
thing just  where  I  was,  or  to  poke  the  fire,  or  brush  the  hearth, 
or  I  was  started  off  upon  an  errand  to  the  kitchen,  or  she  had 
seen  something  of  mine  lying  about;  and  it  was,  —  "There 
are  your  books,  Anstiss,  on  the  kitchen  table  ;  "  or,  "  Your 
coat's  down,  in  the  corner  behind  the  entry  door  ;  "  or,  "  You 
haven't  taken  the  bedclothes  off  and  opened  the  window." 
Nobody  can  tell  what  a  rest  it  was  to  me,  when  I  did  get 
used  to  it  a  little,  to  feel  that  I  might  sit  still  sometimes  and 
not  be  routed  out. 

Mrs.  Hathaway  and  Aunt  Ildy  were  both  good  house-keep- 
ers ;  but  this  was  the  difference  between  them.  Everything 
got  done  at  the  farm,  as  regularly  as  at  Uncle  Royle's,  only 
nobody  was  put  out.  Mrs.  Hathaway  did  not  hesitate  to 
make  me  of  use  in  little  ways  ;  but  somehow  it  never  inter- 
fered. It  made  Aunt  Ildy  restless,  —  in  her  conscience,  I 
verily  believe,  —  only  to  see  a  person  reading  a  book,  or 
warming  their  feet,  or  sitting  at  a  window  to  watch  the  sun- 
set, —  so  long  as  she  could  possibly  find  anything  for  them  to 
do.  I  never  could  help  thinking  of  her  when  I  read  in  the 
Bible  of  Martha  of  Bethany.  I  have  wondered,  since  I  have 
been  older,  if  it  might  not  have  been  just  that  uncomfortable- 
ness  that  the  Lord  rebuked  in  her. 


56  HITHERTO : 

It  was  such  pretty  work  to  put  the  little  press-chamber 
straight !  I  wished  so  I  might  ever  have  a  little  place  like 
that  till  to  myself,  at  home  ;  and  I  thought  over  what  little 
inventions  of  adornment  I  might  dare  to  introduce,  if  I  should. 

"We  made  cake  that  morning,  —  Mrs.  Hathaway  and  I.  She 
expected  some  young  folks  to  tea,  she  said,  the  next  night. 
She  gave  me  the  pleasant  parts.  I  beat  up  the  whites  of  the 
eggs  while  she  did  the  yolks.  At  home,  I  always  had  to  beat 
the  yolks.  Martha  stii'red  the  butter  and  sugar  ;  and  then  the 
beautiful  silver  and  gold  of  the  eggs  were  added,  and  Mrs. 
Hathaway  put  the  gi*eat  wooden  spoon  into  my  hand,  and 
asked  me  to  "  toss  it  together  while  she  could  see  to  the 
flour,"  that  was  not  quite  cool  from  the  drying.  I  cut  up  the 
citron  while  she  beat  the  heavier  mixture  of  the  whole.  "  Take 
a  little  toll,  Nansie,  if  you  like,"  she  told  me.  "  7  can't  cut 
up  citron  without  a  bit  in  my  mouth."  It  didn't  seem  like 
•work ;  it  was  clear  play. 

In  the  afternoon,  Richard  came  in  early.  He  showed  me 
morrice  before  tea ;  and  we  played  in  the  firelight  till  I  could 
beat  him,  making  a  whip-row  every  time.  I  felt  afraid  we 
should  use  up  everything  in  one  day,  I  was  having  such  a 
good  time.  » 

But  there  was  always  something  new,  or  something  that  did 
not  use  up.  Richard  found  me  "Gulliver's  Travels,"  and  "  Baron 
Munchausen."  I  read  these  in  the  mornings,  when  Mrs.  Hath- 
away was  busy  with  things  I  could  not  help  her  in.  The  Kil- 
hams  came  to  tea  the  second  night ;  and  we  played  old-fash- 
ioned games  of  cards  :  "  Lend  me  your  bundle,  neighbor,"  and 
"  Old  Maid."  How  they  all  laughed  when  Richard  Hathaway 
was  left  Old  Maid  !  But  then  he  made  up  such  funny  faces 
when  he  got  the  queen ;  everybody  always  knew  where  she 
was.  Yes,  —  I  do  feel  like  a  child  again,  thinking  these 
things  over.  In  the  light  of  all  that  has  happened  since,  I  go 
back  to  them  with  something  besides  that  simpleness  ;  they 
seem  sacred  to  me. 

We  had  a  party  one  night,  at  last,  —  a  real  country  party. 
The  great  sitting-room  and  the  best  parlor  were  lighted  up, 
with  wood-fires  and  candles  in  the  old  silver  branches  under 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  57 

the  round  mirrors  ;  and  the  stove  in  the  hall  was  almost  red- 
hot  ;  but  it  had  a  high  sheet-iron  fender  round  it,  and  we 
danced  reels,  and  played  "  Blind-man's  Buff,"  and  "  Still 
Palm,"  and  "  I  had  as  many  wives,"  and  forfeits.  I  had  to 
"  bow  to  the  wittiest,  kneel  to  the  prettiest,  and  kiss  the  one 
I  loved  best."  So  I  bowed  to  Jeffrey  Freeman,  —  he  was  the 
funny  3'oung  man  of  the  neighborhood  ;  he  joked  till  nobody 
ever  suspected  him  of  being  in  earnest ;  they  said  that  was  the 
reason  he  never  got  married ;  he  said  it  was  the  reason  he 
hadn't  been  a  minister. 

There  was  no  doubt  about  the  prettiest.  Lucy  Kilham  was 
like  a  wild  rose,  so  simple  and  bright  and  delicate. 

There  was  not  much  question  as  to  the  loving  best ;  I  looked 
about  for  dear  Mrs.  Hathaway ;  but  she  was  not  in  the  hall. 
She  had  gone  to  see  after  the  "  treat "  which  was  being  laid 
out  in  the  breakfast-room,  thence  to  be  brought  out  and 
handed  round  at  half-past  nine.  I  stopped  then,  and  hesi- 
tated. Only  for  a  minute  though.  Richard  stood  against  the 
parlor  door,  and  I  met  his  eye,  watching  me  with  the  old,  kind 
gladness ;  glad  to  see  me  bright  and  happy,  I  knew. 

I  walked  somewhat  slowly,  over  toward  him  ;  I  could  not 
help  so  far  signifying  him ;  but  I  was  not  quite  sure,  even 
when  I  came  to  him,  whether  I  would  do  more.  I  was  only 
thirteen,  and  I  thought  no  harm  ;  if  I  had  been  more  used  to 
home-caressing,  I  should  have  scarcely  felt  an  awkwardness, 
for  there  had  been  plenty  of  meriy  kissing-penalties  all 
through  the  game  ;  I  paused  and  looked  up  at  him,  and  he  bent 
his  head  down — then  I  reached  up  to  him  and  just  touched 
his  cheek.  He  did  not  kiss  me  back  ;  indeed,  I  did  not  give 
him  time ;  there  was  a  flush  in  his  face  as  he  raised  it  again, 
and  I  was  afraid,  for  a  second,  that  he  did  not  like  what  I  had 
done  ;  but  he  kept  hold  of  my  hand  which  he  had  taken,  and 
drew  me  to  a  place  beside  him  against  the  wall ;  and  I  saw  in 
his  eyes  and  about  his  lips  the  look  that  I  never  saw  in  any 
man's  face  but  Richard  Hathaway's,  —  a  look  that  he  had  when 
he  was  moved,  —  a  sort  of  large,  tender  shining  from  under 
lids  a  little  lifted,  and  a  curve  of  the  mouth  that  went  with 
that,  betraying  a  heart-stir  hidden  and  quiet,  but  very  strong. 


58  HITHERTO  : 

He  looked  like  that  sometimes  when  his  mother  praised  him, 
or  when  he  heard  of  some  grand  happening  or  doing ;  or  if 
any  soul,  or  any  creature,  showed  a  love  or  gratitude  for  him 
when  he  had  given  a  help  or  soothed  a  pain.  I  have  seen  him 
look  like  that  upon  a  little  child,  too  small  to  speak,  that 
stretched  its  arms  to  him  ;  I  have  seen  him  look  like  that  upon 
a  sick  woman  to  whose  side  he  had  come,  tenderly  ;  it  was  a 
spirit  great  to  very  gentleness  that  so  revealed  itself;  they 
were  moments  when  he  showed  noblest.  If  I  could  have 
thought  of  him  so  always,  in  those  3"ears  that  came  on  after  ! 
But  he  was  silent ;  homely  in  his  ordinary  ways  ;  content  with 
simple,  common  things  ;  and  I  was  full  of  dreams. 

I  think  Mrs.  Hathaway  always  liked  Lucy  Kilham.  I 
noticed  that  night  how  she  spoke  to  her  in  a  different  way, 
kind  as  she  was,  from  her  kindness  to  anybody  else  ;  and  how 
she  looked  at  Richard  and  at  her  when  it  was  Richard's  turn 
to  redeem  a  forfeit  by  and  by,  and  he  had  to  do  the  same 
thing  that  I  had  done.  He  bowed  to  Lucy,  of  course  ;  eveiy- 
body  did  ;  I  wondered  if  Mrs.  Hathaway  thought  of  anything 
else ;  and  then  he  went  and  gave  the  kiss  to  his  mother.  I 
thought  she  looked  somehow  as  if  she  only  took  it  to  keep 
safely  for  a  while. 

I  felt  how  nice  it  was  to  be  pretty,  like  Lucy.  I  would 
rather,  I  thought,  have  had  a  face  like  hers  than  anything  else 
in  the  woi'ld.  There  are  many  different  types  of  women's 
.  beauty  ;  I  had  not  learned  then,  to  read  or  to  discern  them  all ; 
and  Lucy  Kilham's  was  at  that  time,  and  for  years,  my  ideal. 
It  was  of  the  same,  and  }~et  not  really  at  all  like  Augusta 
Hare's.  Augusta's  was  more  conscious,  and  animated,  and  co- 
quettish ;  she  knew  better  how  to  show  off  her  gift.  Lucy 
just  was  pretty.  Wherever  she  stood  or  sat,  there  was  the 
light  of  the  room  ;  to  my  thought,  she  was  the  part}] ;  the  rest 
were  only  the  people.  Her  brown  hair,  lying  in  a  soft  curve 
along  the  fair  broad  brow  and  temples,  and  tucked  off  care- 
lessly over  the  small  ear  ;  her  large,  gray-hazel  eyes  with  the 
dark  lashes  and  the  straight,  slender  pencilling  above  them  ;  the 
little  dimpled  knitting  of  the  forehead  that  was  a  habit,  and  gave 
her  a  sort  of  tender,  half-troubled  look ;  the  straight,  deli- 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  59 

cate  nose  ;  the  mouth,  so  perfectly  imprinted  and  so  sweetly 
set,  its  corners  tucking  themselves  away  in  dimples  when  she 
smiled  or  spoke,  and  showing  the  little  unobtrusive  white  teeth 
that  met  each  other  with  such  a  charm  of  exactness  and  cosey 
closeness  (Mrs.  Hathaway  said  her  mouth  and  chin  were 
like  nothing  but  a  fresh-made  butter-pat),  —  these  made  me 
look  and  follow  her  till  I  forgot  I  might  be  staring ;  they  made 
me  wonder,  envyingly,  what  it  would  seem  like  to  look  like 
that ;  to  brush  that  beautiful  dark  hair  that  could  not  go  amiss 
over  such  a  clear,  lovely  forehead,  and  to  talk  and  laugh  with 
such  bewitching  furnishings  as  hers. 

I  can  think  now,  just  how  I  looked  that  night  in  the  corner 
glass,  when  I  went  to  undress  in  the  press-chamber.  I  took 
especial  notice,  for  I  wanted  to  find  out.  What  I  did  see,  I 
know  now  was  a  face  pretty  enough  in  its  own  way,  though  I 
slighted  it  so  utterly  in  my  opinion  then,  possessed  with  but 
one  conception.  Round,  and  flushed  to  a  bright  rosiness  with 
excitement  and  fast-returning  health ;  the  eyes  blue  and  in- 
tense from  a  fire  within,  and  the  color  that  like  the  bloom  of 
art  heightened  their  effect ;  hair  soft  and  shining,  tossed 
about  to  a  light  fulness  out  of  the  set  lines  in  which  it  would 
not  stay,  —  all  this  I  saw,  and  only  perceived  that  it  was  not  a 
bit  like  the  sweet  regularity  and  wonderful  fairness  that  had 
so  captivated  me.  The  nose  turned  up  a  little, and  the  mouth 
was  too  undefined.  I  tried  to  accomplish  the  little  pucker  be- 
tween the  brows  that  Lucy  Kilham  had ;  but  my  first  essay 
at  expression-practising  disheartened  me.  It  didn't  suit  with 
the  rest ;  and,  besides  that,  I  didn't  see  how  she  made  it  stay. 
I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  I  was  frightfully  ugly,  and  blew 
out  my  light  and  undressed  in  the  dark. 

It  was  not  for  what  beauty  could  do  for  me ;  I  wanted 
nothing  of  it  except  itself;  but  everything  was  so  common 
with  me ! 

Well,  after  all,  one  could  be  but  common,  and  yet  have 
a  bright,  good  time.  I  reconciled  myself  to  that,  made  my 
dress  especially  trig  and  tidy,  and  went  into  the  briskness  and 
business  of  Thanksgiving  preparation  with  my  kind  enter- 
tainer. 


60  HITHERTO : 

i 

We  all  sat  and  stoned  raisins  together,  for  two  or  three 
evenings  beforehand  ;  Mrs.  Hathaway,  Martha,  Richard,  and  I. 
We  each  had  a  plate  and  a  knitting-needle,  and  the  two  dishes 
of  fruit,  stoned  andunstoned,  stood  midway  in  the  round  table, 
accessible  to  all. 

Then  there  was  citron  to  slice  again ;  and  lemon-peel  to 
shave,  and  to  cut  into  the  minutest  shreds  with  small,  bright 
scissors.  Richard  shaved  it,  and  I  took  the  thin,  curling, 
fragrant  rings  as  they  fell  from  his  fingers,  and  snipped  them 
up. 

How  nice  the  things  looked,  all  sorted  out  in  the  pantry ! 
I  felt  a  little  tender  self-reproach,  thinking  of  Aunt  Ildy  work- 
ing all  alone.  She  had  been  good  to  let  me  come ;  when  I 
got  back  I  would  try  and  be  a  better  girl. 

Richard's  married  sister  and  her  husband  and  children  came 
that  year  all  the  way  from  Schenectady ;  and  his  brother  John 
came  home  from  somewhere  beyond  in  New  York  State. 
John  was  going  to  be  married  out  there ;  after  this,  his 
Thanksgivings  would  be  divided,  and  rarer  yet  in  Broad- 
fields. 

I  helped  Mrs.  Hathaway  bring  clown  the  linen  to  be  aired  ; 
and  I  counted  over  the  best  napkins,  and  rubbed  the  silver ; 
I  dusted  the  spare  rooms,  and  laid  out  towels,  and  filled  the 
pitchers.  We  did  all  this,  and  laid  the  table  in  the  long  sit- 
ting-room, the  day  before.  The  pies  were  baked,  and  plum-pud- 
dings ready,  and  all  were  ranged  in  goodly  show  upon  the 
shelves ;  and  the  whole  hall,  into  which  the  pantry  opened, 
was  redolent  with  sweet,  rich  odors.  "  Spicy  breezes  "  Richard 
called  them  ;  and  he  went  about  singing  the  second  verse  of 
the  Missionary  Hymn. 

I  myself  had  rolled  out  and  filled  the  rnince  turnovers  for  the 
children,  and  printed  the  edges  with  a  little  key.  I  felt  so 
housewifely  and  blithe  ;  I  found  that  there  were  really  many 
good  things  that  one  could  do  and  be,  if  nothing  especial  had 
come  to  one  in  the  way  of  a  fair  face  or  a  rare  fortune.  I  was 
here  in  the  way  of  a  true  healthiness  of  living. 

Mrs.  Kingsdon  arrived,  with  Mr.  Kingsdoii  and  the  children. 
I  went  upstairs  with  the  little  ones,  and  helped  to  put  them 


A   STORY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  61 

to  bed  in  the  south-west  room,  where  I  had  suffered  my 
punishment  last  summer.  There  was  a  fire  blazing  there  now, 
and  the  shutters  were  all  fast  closed.  -The  shadows  from  the 
fire-light  danced  over  the  ceiling,  and  the  large  white  bed 
and  the  little  trundle-bed  were  luminous  with  their  fresh 
pillows  and  coverlets. 

I  think  a  fire  upstairs  is  such  an  especially  pleasant  thing. 
It  is  associated  for  me  with  rare  indulgence ;  times  of  mild 
measles  and  moderate  hooping-cough,  when  my  room  was 
warmed  and  brightened  so,  and  I  lay  in  the  twilights  and  the 
evenings  with  the  cheer  about  me,  feeling  a  sweet  rest,  and 
watching  Lucretia  as  she  would  sit  with  her  knitting-work  in 
her  rocking-chair  by  the  hearth,  casting  a  grotesque  figure  and 
motion  all  across  the  ceiling  with  her  shadow  as  she  vibrated 
to  and  fro,  plying  the  slender  implements  that  magnified  to 
huge  beams  and  battering  rams  and  made  most  awful  threats 
and  passes  overhead. 

I  shaped  rabbits  and  sheep  and  foxes  for  the  children  with 
my  fingers,  and  made  them  leap,  and  nibble,  and  snap  great 
jaws  upon  the  wall.  I  pretended  to  lose  little  saucy  Jimmy, 
who  squatted  in  his  scrap  of  flannel  shirt  in  the  farthest  corner, 
his  pudsy  hands  upon  his  dimpled  knees,  and  shrieked  with 
laughter  when  I  passed  him  by.  They  wanted  "  something 
put  beside  their  beds,"  and  I  went  downstairs  and  brought 
back  small,  round,  sugared  cakes  that  had  been  baked  on  pur- 
pose. They  looked  at  them,  and  laid  them  down  in  perfect 
content  and  loftiest  honor,  not  to  be  touched  till  they  had 
truly  been  asleep,  and  said  their  prayers,  and  tried  to  shut 
their  little  winking,  wakeful  eyes,  and  keep  them  so. 

I  left  them  then,  as  Mrs.  Kingsdon  had  told  me.  In  the 
morning,  by  daylight,  she  said,  they  were  all  astir,  and  nib- 
bling like  little  mice. 

When  I  could  no  longer  do  anything  for  these  little  crea- 
tures, I  stood  aside,  and  half  wished  that -I  were  but  one  of  them ; 
one  of  a  family,  with  all  the  happy  growing-up  before  me. 
Next  to  that,  I  would  have  liked  to  be  their  older  sister.  I 
was  only  thirteen,  and  it  never  occurred  to  me  to  think  of 


62  HITHERTO: 

motherhood  to  such ;  nevertheless,  I  believe  that,  even,  may 
have  been,  unconsciously  in  my  heart. 

Afterward  came  quiet  days  by  ourselves  ;  and  the  time  drew 
toward  the  end  of  my  stay  at  Broadfields. 

I  remember  the  afternoons,  when  Mrs.  Hathaway,  in  her 
brown  merino  gown,  and  white  bobbinet  neckerchief,  with  the 
large  gold  beads  —  the  heir-loom  from  mother  to  daughter  in 
so  many  New  England  country  families  —  around  her  throat, 
would  sit  by  the  little  room  window  with  her  knitting-work, 
or  the  weekly  newspaper  which  she  read  in  bits  and  over  and 
over  for  secular  literature ;  and  the  Sundays,  when,  in  black 
silk  and  best  cap,  she  would  sit  in  the  same  place,  and  the 
reading  would  be  a  chapter  or  two  in  the  great  family  Bible 
laid  across  her  knees.  She  would  give  me  at  the  same  time  a 
large-print  Testament,  and  I  would  turn  it  over  to  my 
favorite  places  in  Revelation,  and  read  about  the  heavenly 
city. 

The  little-room  window  looked  to  the  east ;  Mrs.  Hatha- 
w.ay's  room  and  the  press-chamber  were  in  the  kitchen  L,  and 
on  the  western  side.  There  was  the  early  sun  to  breakfast  in, 
and  the  last  twilight  to  go  to  bed  with,  or  to  follow.  It  is  a 
good  and  a  cheery  thing  so  to  travel  with  the  ciay. 

But  I  liked  the  looking  out  eastward  for  a  Avhile  in  the  late 
afternoon  light,  also.  There  was  the  bare  top  of  Red  Hill 
right  over  against  us,  and  it  took  its  color  from  the  gorgeous- 
ness  opposite ;  and  the  clouds  above  it  were  deeply  crimson 
and  tenderly  pink  before  they  settled  into  the  evening  gray. 

There  was  jasper  on  Red  Hill,  from  which  it  had  its  name. 
I  was  asking  Richard  about  it  the  last  Sunday  evening  before 
I  went  away.  I  had  never  seen  any  jasper  ;  and  it  seemed  to 
me  something  wonderful  that  the  stone,  which  is  the  lower 
foundation  of  the  holy  Jerusalem,  should  be  found  in  frag- 
ments there,  close  by  us,  on  Red  Hill.  I  knew  these  words 
and  names  were  emblems  ;  still  it  gave  me  a  feeling  as  if  Red 
Hill  must  be  mysteriously  near  to  heaven. 

"I  have  a  piece  upstairs,  polished,"  Richai'd  said,  when  I 
had  told  him  this  ;  and  he  went  and  brought  it  for  me.  It  was 
an  irregular  oval ;  smooth,  flat  on  one  side,  and  rising  to  a 


A   STOUT  OF    YESTERDAYS.  63 

cone-like  ridge  upon  the  other ;  of  a  deep,  rich  red,  made 
bright  with  the  perfect  gloss  to  which  it  had  been  brought.  I 
held  it  in  my  hands  with  pleasure. 

Presently,  I  turned  to  my  Testament,  and  read  over  the 
stones  aloud,  naming  their  colors.  I  had  found  them  out  by 
asking,  and  by  searching  in  a  dictionary  of  minerals  at  school. 
I  had  thought  them  over  and  imaged  them  to  myself  till  I 
knew  them  by  heart,  and,  inwardly,  by  sight. 

"  Jasper,  crimson ;  sapphire,  blue  ;  chalcedony,  pure,  lus- 
trous, waxy  white ;  emerald,  deep,  full  green ;  sardoiryx, 
red  sardius  and  white  chalcedony  in  turn  ;  sardius,  blood-red  ; 
chrysolite,  clear,  transparent  green ;  beryl,  pale  blue  ;  topaz, 
yellow  ;  chiysoprase,  bright  leek-green  ;  jacinth,  purple  ;  ame- 
tlryst,  violet." 

"  That  is  the  way  they  go,"  I  said  to  Richard,  in  a  child's 
homely  phrase,  but  feeling  a  great  beauty  as  I  spoke.  From 
this  darkest,  up  through  all  others  to  violet, — just  like  the  rain- 
bow. What  do  colors  mean,  Richard  ?  In  the  beginning  of 
the  Bible  is  the  rainbow  ;  that  io  the  covenant ;  and  here  at 
the  end  is  the  rainbow  of  precious  stones  ;  the  solid  one  ;  the 
wall  of  the  holy  Jerusalem.  And  the  gates  are  pearls,  pure 
white." 

"  Nobody  knows  what  it  means,"  said  Richard. 

"  But  it  does  mean,"  I  persisted.  "  They  wouldn't  be  called 
by  names  of  things  we  know  if  we  weren't  to  find  out." 

"  It's  just  a  description  ;  nobody  understands  it,"  Richard 
repeated,  vaguely. 

"  Don't  3'ou  care?"  I  asked,  impatiently. 

"  I  care  most  for  things  that  are  plain  and  real ;  I  think 
that's  the  best  way,"  he  answered.  "  You  may  keep  the  jas- 
per, Nansie  ;  next  summer  we'll  go  up  Red  Hill  and  get  more." 

I  was  disappointed  with  Richard.  This  was  one  of  the  ends 
at  which  he  always  stopped.  He  could  help  me  so  in  common 
things ;  he  could  make  everything  so  pleasant  to  me ;  but  he 
would  not  help  me  think. 

I  shut  up  the  Testament,  and  turned  away  to  the  window, 
looking  up  at  Red  Hill ;  and  I  would  not  say  any  more.  I 
forgot  to  thank  him  even,  for  the  jasper.  I  dare  say  he  was 


64  HITHERTO : 

dissatisfied  too,  thinking  me  visionary  and  fantastic.     He  al- 
ways seemed  afraid  of  that  for  me. 

Mrs.  Hathaway  had  taken  off  her  spectacles  while  we  talked, 
and  sat  looking  over  at  us.  She  could  see  both  our  faces. 

"  O  you  foolish  children ! "  she  said,  in  a  sort  of  loving,- 
pitiful  way.  "  One  begins  backwards,  and  the  other  doesn't 
begin  at  all,  —  by  appointed  means.  The  way  to  Revelation 
is  all  through  Matthew  and  Mark,  Luke  and  John.  When 
you've  done  all  that,  then  you'll  come  to  the  jasper  walls  and 
the  gates  of  pearl." 

She  was  always  anxious,  religiously,  about  Richard  ;  the 
more,  I  believe,  because  he  was  by  nature  so  good  already. 
She  had  been  taught  to  believe  that  a  sweet  nature  might  even 
hinder  grace.  "  To  enter  in  by  the  door  into  the  sheep-fold," 
—  that,  in  her  understanding  of  it,  was  what  she  always 
longed  for  in  his  behalf. 

I  looked  round,  and  Richard  smiled.  Something  pleased, 
or  amused,  him  in  his  mother's  speech ;  her  calling  us  both 
children  alike,  I  think,  when  he  was  one-and-twenty,  and  I 
just  entered  into  my  teens. 

"  Come,  Nansie,"  he  said  ;  "  put  on  your  rubbers  and  wraps, 
and  we'll  carry  some  milk  to  the  kittens  in  the  barn."  He 
never  forgot  a  want  that  he  could  answer ;  and  he  was  always 
nobly  patient ;  I  think,  now,  that  these  had  something  to  do 
with  Matthew  and  Mark,  Luke  and  John,  whether  of  a  pur- 
pose or  not.  But  I  went  with  him  that  night,  only  half 
pleased. 

I  wished  so  I  could  have  somebody  to  talk  to  ;  to  say  my 
fancies  out  to,  and  have  them  reasoned  into  something  —  or 
nothing.  I  could  not  do  it  with  Mrs.  Hathaway  ;  not  upon 
these  subjects ;  with  her  there  was  only  one  question  to  be 
asked,  anxiously  and  first.  Perhaps  I  was  coming  —  being 
led  —  to  it,  though  it  were  backward  even.  There  is  one 
Door ;  but  they  come  from  the  east  and  the  west,  the  north 
and  the  south,  to  sit  down  in  the  kingdom. 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  65 


CHAPTER  VI. 

A  THREAD    BROUGHT   UP. 

FROM  farther  back  and  away  off. 

Up  into  New  Hampshire,  to  a  little  human  home  upon  first 
principles  ;  to  a  very  beginning  of  things  we  must  come,  to 
find  the  starting-point  of  that  which  grows  to  be  an  element, 
pretty  soon,  in  these  lives  with  which  we  have  to  do. 

It  was  under  a  wild  hill,  in  a  little  red  house,  with  no  other 
near,  —  only  a  scrap  of  clearing  in  front,  down  to  the  river, 
where  a  bit  of  one-handed  farming  was  done  ;  and  a  peep  of 
far-off  roofs  between  the  distant  slopes  of  the  long,  deep  val- 
ley. Here,  once  upon  a  time,  there  lived  as  happy  a  young 
couple  as  any  in  all  the  State. 

Nothing  on  earth  to  worry  them  ;  nothing  to  lose  ;  little  to 
•want ;  everything  in  life  to  look  for  and  to  gain.  Working 
up  ;  beginning  a  long  way  down,  but  feeling  the  great  joy  of 
the  beginning  ;  strong  and  cheery,  both  of  them  ;  their  very 
pulses  one  with  the  great  pulse  of  nature  about  them  ;  some- 
thing of  the  mountain  and  the  river  taken,  day  by  day,  into 
the  spirit,  and  sent  forth  in  act ;  they  grew,  as  it  were,  to  the 
color  of  their  abode  and  nourishing,  as  a  woodpecker  grows 
to  the  gray  of  a  tree-trunk,  and  the  katydid  is  brilliant  with 
the  green  of  the  leafage. 

They  came  here  out  of  the  village  together.  Geoi'ge  De- 
vine  had  got  the  help  of  stalwart  friends,  and  raised  his  house- 
frame  ;  and  with  a  job  hired  irregularly,  now  and  again,  had 
boarded  it  in  and  shingled  it,  mainly  with  his  own  hands. 
Persis  wove  her  own  sheets  and  pillow-cases ;  "  hired  out "  for 
a  winter,  and  bought  a  best  gown  and  a  new  bonnet  and  a  tea- 
set  ;  and  they  were  married  on  a  June  day,  and  came  home  to 
pick  wild  strawberries  on  the  hill-side,  and  make  a  johnny-cake 
5 


66  HITHERTO: 

for  supper ;  and  to  feel  just  as  well  off,  and  a  great  deal  better 
able  to  take  in  the  full  content  of  it  all,  than  if  they  had  had 
a  hundred  weight  of  silver  to  bring  with  them  and  to  be  be- 
holden to  fashionable  friends  for,  and  a  grand  reception  to 
give  next  week. 

The  birds  and  the  river  serenaded  them ;  tame  little  red 
squirrels  came  and  made  morning  calls  upon  them  ;  and  in  the 
twilights  and  on  the  Sundays,  friends  walked  up  the  wood- 
path  between  great  oaks  and  beeches,  —  a  grand  approach, 
such  as  men,  with  monstrous  outlay,  make  over  again  to  their 
dwellings,  where,  with  equal  outlay,  the  old  glory  has  been 
laid  low  ;  and  the  young  men  talked  of  their  farms  and  their 
oxen,  of  training-days  and  elections  ;  and  the  women  of  their 
bedquilts  and  their  butter,  their  new  gowns  and  the  village 
news  ;  some  of  them  of  their  babies. 

All  this  was  more  than  twenty  years  before. 

Summer  and  winter  went  by,  and  spring  came,  tender- 
footed,  over  the  hills,  and  summer  was  near  again.  Something 
else  was  near.  Something  that  made  the  young  wife  happy 
in  the  bright  mornings,  —  the  brave  morning-times  when  soul 
and  body  wake  together,  strong  for  whatever  may  be  to  do  or 
to  bear,  —  and  fearful  with  a  tremble  and  a  foreboding,  when 
the  nights  shut  down  and  cut  them  off  with  gloom  and  silence 
from  the  village  two  miles  away.  Nobody  nearer  than  those 
two  miles, — mother,  doctor,  or  friend,  —  whatever  might 
happen  before  daylight.  Only  a  forest  bridle  and  foot-path 
between. 

"  It  will  all  come  right,"  said  cheeiy  George  Devine. 

And  one  glad,  sweet,  perfumy  morning,  it  did  come  right. 
George  walked  and  ran  the  two  miles  in  twenty  minutes,  got 
to  the  village  at  "  sun-up,"  and  home  again  just  as  the  golden 
light  fell  full  from  over  the  mountain-top,  like  a  promise,  upon 
his  roof-tree ;  the  country  doctor  followed  on  Crab,  with  his 
saddle-bags,  close  after ;  and  then  the  mother,  never  minding 
the  two  miles  afoot,  with  all  her  fifty  years  and  growing, 
comely  weight.  And  into  the  small  home  cume  the  pain  and 
the  peril  and  the  joy  that  are  the  same  in  palace  and  cabin,  and 


A    STOUT  OF   YESTERDAYS.  67 

by  equal  chrism  and  crown  make  every  woman,  who  so  suffers 
and  receives,  a  queen. 

They  called  the  baby  by  a  quaint  old  name  in  which  their 
exultation  spoke  itself,  —  Rejoice.  They  never  thought  of 
anything  but  joy  in  her  from  that  day  onward,  when  they 
named  her  so.  In  their  love  and  gladness,  they  arrogated 
fate  to  their  desire. 

All  that  happy  summer  through  of  her  young  motherhood, 
Persis  did  her  small,  neat  house-keeping,  with  her  baby  in 
the  cradle  or  upon  her  arm  ;  but  when  summer  came  again, 
George  had  to  put  a  wooden  slide  across  the  door  to  shut  the 
little  one  in  from  all  the  great,  dangerous  worid,  that  began 
for  her  from  just  outside  that  threshold  ;  for  the  tiny  feet  had 
grown  restless,  and  strong,  and  wilful;  and  the  bit,  bright  face 
looked  over  at  him,  and  the  wee  hands  clapped  and  beckoned 
when  he  came  up  from  his  work,  and  out  on  the  doorstone  he 
would  stop,  deferring  his  delight,  to  pick  up  spoon  and  rattle 
and  clothes-pin  and  string  of  buttons,  and  the  half-dozen  other 
homely  toys  of  which  the  busy  mother  had  made  temporary 
beguilements  and  that  the  child  had  flung  away  ;  and  last  of 
all  would  gather  up  his  child,  with  a  strong  rapture,  and  hold 
her  to  his  lips  and  heart.  The  old  beautiful  story  of  a  baby- 
hood, always,  whatever  comes  of  it  afterward  ! 

"  By  and  by,  —  when  she  can  run  and  meet  me !  "  he 
would  say. 

"  By  and  by,  — when  she  can  play  on  the  flat  rock,  and  set 
out  acorn-cups  and  bits  of  moss,  and  keep  a  little  house,  as  I 
did  once ! " 

"  And  when  the  farm  grows,  and  I  stay  in  the  fields  all  daj', 
and  she  can  come  and  bring  my  dinner  to  me  !  " 

"  She  will  have  the  3~oung  girls  from  the  village,  one  of 
these  days,  to  walk  in  the  pine  woods?  and  get  flowers  and 
berries,  and  come  home  to  tea." 

"  She  will  have  a  sweetheart,  maybe,  to  walk  and  talk  there 
with  her,  as  I  walked  and  talked  with  you." 

Persis  would  stop  there ;  the  mother  does  not  go  beyond 
this,  with  her  "  by  and  by." 


68  HITHERTO : 

And  as  yet  the  child  was  just  their  little,  bright  Rejoice ; 
and  the  future  was  all  hid. 

Ten  or  twelve  years  went  by  ;  and  there  was  no  other  little 
one  ;  indeed,  the  mother  said  that  this  was  well.  They  called 
her  Joyce,  now ;  names  get  shortened  so  ;  and  somehow  they 
grew  sad  when  they  remembered  how  they  had  first  christened 
her. 

She  gave  them  trouble ;  they  no  longer  said  "  by  and  by." 
The  father  looked  in  the  mother's  anxious  face  when  he  came 
in,  to  read  what  new  pain  the  wilful,  wayward  little  girl  had 
given ;  and  they  lay  awake  and  talked  at  nights  of  what  they 
should  do  to  rule  and  win  her.  For  she  was  of  a  strange  tem- 
per, that  would  neither  be  ruled  nor  won  ;  passionate,  discon- 
tented,' headstrong  ;  heedless  of  duty  and  of  love  ;  bent  only 
upon  selfish  end  and  pleasure.  She  opened  great,  saucy  eyes 
when  her  father  reasoned,  or  her  mother  pleaded  ;  she  defied 
restriction,  bore  punishment  doggedly,  and  reiterated  offence. 
Idle  and  wild,  she  gathered  about  her,  instead  of  the 
sweet  young  companionship  her  mother  had  pictured,  the 
truants  and  the  ne'er-do-weels  of  the  village  ;  she  would  escape 
and  be  off  with  them  whole  long  mornings.  Persis  Devine's 
heart  ached  when  she  thought,  now,  of  the  by  and  by.  God's 
by  and  by  is  long ;  that  is  the  only  comfort. 

At  fourteen,  Joyce  ran  away,  with  a  girl  four  years  her 
elder.  Bewitched  with  stories  of  factory  life,  tired  of  her 
quiet  home,  she  made  up  a  bundle  of  her  clothes,  took  a  little 
money,  and  went  off,  down  to  where  mills  were  building  and 
cotton  spinning,  on  the  Merrimac.  George  Devine  went  after 
her,  and  brought  her  back.  It  was  only  a  fruitless,  ill-con- 
ceived, child's  attempt ;  but  it  half  broke  the  hearts-  that  had 
so  built  upon  her. 

In  the  midst  of  all*this  trouble,  came  to  them  —  a  strange 
late  gift  —  another  little  one.  Pure,  and  sweet,  and  lovely, 
as  the  first  had  been  ;  to  grow,  perhaps,  —  God  knew  whether, 
—  into  another  pain  for  them. 

"  He  could  not  let  it  be  so, "  the  poor  mother  said ;  and 
trembling  inwardly,  pleading  and  praying,  assuming  nothing, 
now,  she  called  it  Hope. 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  69 

When  Hope  was  three  years  old,  the  father  died. 

Then  Joyce  could  not  be  restrained.  She  must  earn  money 
now,  she  said  ;"  and  indeed  there  was  need  of  it ;  so  she  went 
down  to  the  mills.  She  cried  when  she  said  good-by  at  last, 
holding  her  little  sister  in  her  arms.  The  one  tenderness  in 
her  nature  had  awakened  for  her.  In  these  three  years  she 
had  seemed  to  soften  somewhat,  and  at  times  to  be  even  steady 
and  thoughtful ;  there  was  a  chance  yet,  Pei'sis  thought ;  so 
with  good,  motherly  counsel,  and  kisses  and  prayers,  she  let 
her  go. 

From  the  mills,  Joyce  went  to  the  great  city  beyond ;  to 
learn  a  trade,  she  said,  and  make  her  fortune.  She  came 
home  now  and  then,  wearing  fine  clothes  ;  a  bonnet  with 
French  flowers  ;  a  silk  dress  and  an  embroidered  shawl ;  and 
she  gave  her  mother  money.  She  would  have  Hope  with  her, 
by  and  by,  she  said ;  she  petted  the  child,  and  brought  her 
pretty  keepsakes. 

When  Hope  was  seven  the  neighbors  sent  for  Joyce ;  the 
mother  was  ill  of  a  fever ;  Joyce  hardly  got  there  for  the  end. 
And  then  the  two  were  orphans. 

The  neighbors  could  not  interfere  ;  but  they  hardly  liked 
the  look  of  the  thing,  when  Joyce  took  Hope  and  went  away. 
Something  coarser  in  the  girl's  face ;  something  meaner 
even  in  the  dress,  mixed  yet  with  a  tawdry  smartness,  as  she 
had  come  among  them  (she  had  put  on  a  black  bonnet,  and 
a  black  shawl  and  gown  of  her  mother's  now,  to  go  back  in), 
—  indicated,  even  to  these  unsophisticated  country-folk,  a  step 
downward,  somehow ;  they  were  "  afraid  she  wasn't  making 
out  so  terrible  well,  after  all." 

And  then  there  came  a  gap  which  it  needs  not  to  fill  up  ;  a 
changing  and  wandering  of  these  two,  from  place  to  place, 
still  hand  in  hand ;  for,  erring  and  unfit  as  she  was,  Joyce 
loved  the  child,  and  Hope  was  innocent  and  trusting. 

Joyce's  face  grew  coarse;  she  was  "queer  "and  ill,  now 
and  then ;  when  these  times  came,  Hope  just  stayed  by  and 
waited. 

"  Whiles"  as  the  Scotch  say,  they  would  go  together  into 
service ;  Joyce  was  capable,  and  would  work  well  for  a  space  ; 


70  HITHERTO : 

and  Hope  was  bright  and  quick  for  errands  and  small 
chores. 

Then  they  would  live  in  some  bit  of  a  room  together, 
"  house-keeping,"  —  Joyce  getting  work  at  her  trade,  in  a  shop  ; 
they  had  strange  neighbors  and  strange  company,  often,  and 
Joyce  went  and  came  at  extraordinary  hours ;  but  she  was 
kind  and  loving  to  the  little  sister,  —  careful  of  her,  in  a  cer- 
tain fashion,  amid  all  her  recklessness ;  that  and  her  young 
childhood  and  her  simpleness,  and  some  peculiar  inherent 
quality  of  her  own  little  life,  hard  to  define,  only  possible  now 
and  then,  in  a  heaven-sunned  nature  like  hers  to  discern,  saved 
Hope.  She  was  like  a  pure  little  blossom  that  lifts  its  deli- 
cate head  sometimes,  out  of  a  handful  of  sweet,  natural  earth, 
kept  by  some  blind  love  or  instinct  in  the  midst  of  grimness 
and  foulness,  and  all  that  shrouds  and  shuts  out  nature. 

That  does  not  tell  it  either.  A  shaft  of  divine  light  ran 
athwai't  and  through  this  child's  spiritual  being,  that  lit  up 
itself  and  the  air  about  it ;  that  even  illumined  the  motes  there- 
in that  were  really  of  the  dust  and  refuse,  and  turned  them 
into  starry  sparkles.  She  made  her  own  little  bright  spot 
at  once  ;  she  made  friends  who  turned  toward  her  the  side  that 
was  capable  of  ripening  to  any  sweetness,  even  among  the 
very  castaways  with  whom  her  wretched  outer  living  brought 
her  in  innocent  and  unsuspicious  contact.  She  was  never 
frightened,  never  lonely ;  she  sang  little  nursery  songs  to  her- 
self by  hours,  when  Joyce  left  her  ;  when  a  change  came,  —  as 
always  did  come  to  whatever  temporary  plan  or  abiding  they 
might  make, — thi'ough  a  fit  of  temper,  or  a  whim,  or  the 
"  queerness  "  on  the  one  hand,  or  an  impulse  to  better  things, 
as  it  might  be,  on  the  other,  with  poor  Joyce,  —  she  set  off 
blithe  and  trusting  again ;  always  looking  for  the  good  that 
they  were  surely  going  to  ;  seeking  the  fortune  that  infallibly 
lay  beyond. 

She  told  Joyce  stories,  in  her  cunning  little  way ;  half  of 
memory,  half  of  her  own  sweet,  childish  fancy,  about  sisters 
like  them  who  went  out  into  the  wide  world  and  came  to 
wonderful  luck.  She  mixed  up  the  little  she  had  been  taught 
about  God's  providence  with  this  ;  and  it  was  "  the  good  God  " 


A    STORT  OF   YESTERDAYS.  71 

who  was  to  bring  them  out  of.  every  perplexity  and  lead  them 
to  the  beautiful  end.  This  force  of  an  opposite  drawing  it  was 
that  persuaded  Joyce's  vibrating  life  to  its  better  extreme ; 
that  attracted  her  to  a  quiet  and  respectable  living ;  that 
brought  her  sometimes,  and  so  Hope,  into  a  purer  atmos- 
phere. Out  of  this  Hope  gathered,  by  angelic  assimilation,  the 
good  and  the  brightness  and  the  fragmeutaiy  truth  which  she 
carried  into  the  darker  alternations ;  as  if  the  day  might 
treasure  up  and  secrete  particles  of  its  sunlight  against  the 
turning  away  toward  the  sunless  void. 

She  asked  her  sister  once  what  her  name  meant.  She 
understood  her  own  and  it  was  beautiful.  "  Joyce "  must 
mean  something. 

"  I  lost  the  beginning  of  my  name,  long  ago,"  Joyce  an- 
swered bitterly.  "  When  I  was  little,  they  called  me  Rejoice. 
It  will  never  be  put  together  again.  Never  call  me  so !  "  she 
added,  with  an  almost  angry  impetuosity. 

"  God  could  put  it  together,"  said  Hope,  confidently.  "  I 
shall  call  you  '  Re/  to  save  the  two  halves,  and  keep  Him  in 
mind." 

So,  after  that,  she  always  did. 

But  poor  Joyce's  name  and  life  were  alike  in  two  distracted 
halves.  And  for  two  years  more  it  went  on  so,  till  Hope  was 
nine.  Then  —  they  had  been  in  the  farthest  gloom  for 
months  —  the  end  came. 

A  pitiful  sight  in  a  city  street  one  day,  —  far  off,  as  they 
measured  distance  then,  from  the  scene  of  Joyce  Devine's  firsi 
venture  after  fortune,  —  gathered  a  gradual  crowd. 

A  wornam  sitting  on  the  damp  sidewalk,  leaning  back  in  a 
sheltering  angle  of  the  brick  wall ;  a  pale,  distorted  face,  that 
ought  to  have  been  young,  but  that  never  would  be  young 
again  ;  swollen,  changed,  from  what  it  must  have  been  a  little 
wkile  ago,  —  stupid,  senseless ;  the  eyes  half  shut,  the  jaw 
falling ;  an  old  bonnet  crushed  down  upon  the  forehead ;  a 
thin,  torn,  dirty  calico  gown,  and  a  miserable  shawl  that  hid 
and  helped  nothing  ;  feet  thrust  out,  unsightly,  in  broken  and 
down-trodden  shoes.  Beside  this,  a  little  girl  standing  wait- 
ing. No  surprise,  no  perplexity  even,  in  her  face ;  only  a 


72  HITHERTO: 

patient  look  that  was  hardly  sad,  rather  sure  and  expectant, 
though  a  little  weary,  —  a  something  through  the  patience 
which  said  it  would  be  better  with  them  soon,  —  she  had  only 
to  wait. 

She  moved  before  the  other  a  little,  when  people  came  by, 
and  glanced  and  lingered  ;  she  drew  the  old  shawl  over  her  sis- 
ter's bosom  when  the  wind,  or  some  half-conscious  motion, 
stirred  it;  she  said,  "It  was  no  matter, — Joyce  was  queer 
like  that  sometimes,"  when  any  one  questioned ;  but  all  the 
while  Joyce  grew  strangely  queerer. 

There  was  no  omnipresent  police  in  those  days  ;  a  good 
many  persons,  one  after  another,  half  paused,  and  then  went 
on,  none  of  them  being  that  "  somebody  "  who  is  always  to 
take  care,  at  last,  of  that  which  does  not  eventually  take  care 
of  itself;  but  presently  they  would  no  longer  go  by;  they 
stopped  and  gathered  ;  they  said  the  constable  must  be  sent 
for,  and  she  must  be  carried  somewhere. 

"  Please  let  her  be,"  Hope  said ;  "  she  will  be  better  by 
and  by,  and  we  will  go  home." 

She  stood  with  her  hand  on  Joyce's  shoulder ;  the  other 
arm  held  across  her  breast,  keeping  the  old  shawl  on  ;  some- 
how no  one  liked  to  meddle  forcibly,  or  take  the  child  away ; 
there  was  an  impalpable  shield  of  privacy  about  her  as  she 
stood  there  in  her  patient  trouble  in  the  open  street,  as  if 
close  walls  and  shuttered  windows  had  covered  her  in ;  she 
looked  so  surprised  that  any  should  persistently  intrude ;  it 
was  her  business,  and  she  knew  so  Avell. 

But  Joyce  grew  queerer  —  paler ;  the  slight  occasional  move- 
ments ceased ;  there  was  no  longer  the  expiration  of  slow, 
audible  breath  ;  she  lay  very  still,  and  the  head  fell  further 
forward. 

A  man  just  come  up,  pressed  through  the  crowd,  and  got  a 
single  look  ;  then  he  laid  his  hand  upon  her  bonnet  and  lifted 
it  away. 

"  Let  her  be,"  said  Hope,  reiterating  her  old  words  in  a  tired 
wajr ;  "  she  will  be  better,  soon." 

"  She  is  better,"  said  the  man.     "  She  is  just  dead." 

Hope  looked  at  him  as  if  she  could  not  comprehend  either 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  73 

the  fact,  or  how  lie  dared  to  utter  it.  "  Dead?"  she  repeated, 
as  if  she  spoke  after  him  a  word  in  some  strange  language. 

"  She  is  dead  ;  of  heart  disease  and  —  inebriation." 

He  was  a  doctor,  and  he  could  read  the  signs  ;  but  he  looked 
in  that  child's  pure,  amazed  face,  and  he  could  not  use  a  harsher, 
commoner  word. 

This  then  was  the  end  of  it  all ;  of  the  young  wife's  fears 
and  gladness ;  of  the  home-building  and  the  looking-for,  the 
pain,  and  the  joy,  and  the  pride ;  of  the  sister-love,  and  the 
fortune-seeking  together.  This  was  the  whole  history  and 
out-come  of  it. 

Was  it? 

There  is  never  an  end  ;  it  is  always  a  going  on  ;  and  God's 
mercy  is  beyond,  always.  In  the  infinitude  of  that,  Joj^ce  may 
have  found,  somewhere,  before  now,  the  old,  lost  syllable  of  her 
name. 

Meanwhile,  there  was  at  that  moment  only  this,  the  seem- 
ing end  :  the  dead  girl  in  the  streets  ;  the  gathering  crowd  ; 
the  doctor ;  presently  the  coroner,  the  bearing  away,  the  in- 
quest ;  and  little  Hope  left  alone  in  the  world. 


74  HITHERTO : 


CHAPTER    VII. 

ONE    OF   THESE   DATS. 

THERE  were  two  places  in  the  city,  to  one  of  which  Hope 
would  have  to  be  taken,  —  the  almshouse,  or  a  more  special 
charity,  the  Female  House  of  Industry,  and  Asylum  for  the 
Indigent.  It  was  to  this  latter,  and  to  the  former  division  of 
it,  that  she  was  brought. 

They  put  on  her  a  dark  blue  gown  and  a  brown  linen  apron, 
and  merged  her  in  the  routine  and  duty  of  the  establishment. 
They  told  her  God  had  taken  her  sister,  and  that  this  was  to 
be  her  home.  They  were  kind  to  her  ;  I  have  no  tale  of  hor- 
rors to  relate.  Only  it  was  routine  and  rule,  and  keeping  to 
hours  and  work. 

She  grieved,  in  a  tender  way,  for  Joyce  ;  but  she  had  great 
faith,  in  her  small,  unlearned  fashion.  God  had  taken  her ; 
she  gave  her  up  to  him.  She  could  wait ;  she  had  waited  a 
great  many  times  before.  God  would  take  her,  sometime,  too. 

There  was  a  school  for  the  children  in  this  House  of  Indus- 
try ;  three  hours  for  simple  lessons  in  reading,  writing,  and 
numbers  ;  some  of  the  oldest  ones  studied  Geography.  After 
that,  they  did,  in  different  departments,  various  small, 
tedious  work ;  all  sameness  of  work  is  tedious  to  children. 
They  picked  hair  for  mattresses,  which  the  women  made  over 
or  made  up  ;  they  sewed  patchwork  for  quilts ;  they  hemmed 
towels  ;  they  braided  mats ;  they  went  into  the  laundry  and 
learned  to  do  ruffles  on  ruffling  irons,  or  they  turned  crimping 
machines.  They  had  half  hours,  at  different  times  in  the  day, 
for  play. 

Next  door  to  the  asylum  was  a  building  in  which  was  also 
a  children's  school ;  the  yard  in  which  these  children  played 
was  divided  by  a  high  fence  from  the  other.  From  the  win- 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  75 

dows  in  the  passages  above,  the  little  charity-folks  in  their 
straight  blue  gowns  and  Holland  aprons,  could  leok  over  upon 
these  groups  of  little  ones  who  came  from  homes  ;  who  had  an 
individuality,  and  wore,  some  of  them  dresses  of  blue,  some 
of  pink,  some  .of  green  or  white. 

Hope  watched  their  games  and  caught  the  clue  to  them ; 
then  she  and  her  companions  repeated  them  in  the  asylum 
yard.  Children's  pleasures  are  made  up  of  a  thousand  little 
imaginations  and  interpretings  that  are  incomprehensible  to 
their  elders,  except  as  they  look  back  on  their  own  childhood  ; 
and  this  some  of  us  have  either  not  the  power  to  do,  or  have 
lost  the  habit.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  a  genius  for  retrospec- 
tion. If  it  were  not  for  such  intangible  and  perhaps  absurd 
imaginings  and  associations,  where  would  be  the  charm  of 
nine-tenths  of  the  children's  games?  They  are  types  and 
suggestions  to  them  of  great,  unconscious  meanings.  In  the 
after  years  we  unravel  some  of  these  which  were  vaguely 
beautiful  in  their  time,  if  so  be,  indeed,  we  have  that  retro- 
spective genius  which 'can  call  them  up  in  their  vividness,  and 
the  insight  that  can  analyze. 

They  played  at  "  Bookbinder  ;  "  where  the  sport  consisted  in 
successive  trials  of  watchfulness  and  agility,  by  the  placing  of 
a  book  upon  the  closed  and  joined  fists,  manipulating  about  it 
with  touches  and  approaches  and  feints  of  lifting,  the  end  of 
which  was,  if  it  could  be  accomplished,  a  smart  rap  upon  the 
knuckles  too  slow  in  withdrawing,  or  the  fall  of  the  book  to 
the  ground',  which  was  just  as  bad.  Between  this  little  Scylla 
and  Charybdis  each  child  watched  and  waited  eagerly,  with 
alert,  sparkling  eyes ;  every  failure  sent  the  defeated  one 
down  to  the  foot  of  the  line ;  she  who  held  her  place  at  the 
head  for  three  rounds  became  Bookbinder. 

There  was  great  glee  in  the  asylum  yard  the  day  this  new 
game,  borrowed  from  their  neighbors,  was  inaugurated. 
Hope  showed  them  how  it  was  done,  as  usual ;  they  played 
with  a  small  square  bit  of  smooth  board,  left  by  some  carpen- 
ter, and  treasured  up  as  a  plaything ;  they  could  not  carry 
books  away  from  the  school-room.  It  was  a  grand  excitement ; 
fun,  they  knew  not  why  ;  the  truth  was  that  to  their  child-ua- 


76  HITHERTO : 

tures  and  ambitions  it  was  all  that  the  most  earnest  strivings 
are  to  men  and  women  ;  when  life  tries  them  with  its  ticklish 
opportunities  ;  when  they  watch  and  balance,  and,  seizing  the 
right  moment,  may,  by  vigilance  and  quickness,  succeed  ;  or 
too  fearful,  or  too  slow,  may  let  fall  everything,  or  get  their 
knuckles  rapped,  and  go  down,  disappointed,  to  the  foot.  If 
they  can  go  up  and  stay  up,  after  a  while  they  begin  to  dis- 
pense chances  and  hold  fates  for  others.  It  is  only  a  bigger 
game  that  goes  round  so  ;  we  are  just  like  the  children  ;  by 
our  games,  also,  we  are  training  faculties  for  the  grasp  of 
things  yet  more  large  and  real,  that  we  shall  come  to  by  and 

fcy- 

Then  there  was  one  other  chief  amusement.  In  these 
bricked  yards  were  wide  borders,  marked  off  by  planks  set 
edgewise,  holding  garden  earth,  in  which  grew  shrubs  and 
common  flowers.  The  children  tried  in  turn  walking  this  nar- 
row plank-edge  from  end  to  end.  According  to  the  distances 
they  achieved  without  a  slipping,  they  would  rank  themselves, 
keeping  their  place  and  number  from  day  to  day.  There  were 
differences  in  these  wooden  curbs  ;  some  were  inch-wide  only, 
some  gave  double  that  for  foothold ;  so  they  had  classes 
higher  and  lower  ;  being  promoted  from  the  head  of  one  to  the 
foot  of  another.  What  was  this  like  but  moral  and  intellec- 
tual mounting  ?  What  was  it  more  like  than  some  holy  Para- 
ble or  Promise,  even,  —  of  narrow  ways  that  lead  to  higher 
life,  of  small  work  well  done,  after  which  shall  be  given 
greater  ?  We  live  in  allegory  ;  the  very  children  in  the  mar- 
ket-place utter  the  truth  hidden  away  in  them ;  they  believe 
they  are  at  play  only ;  but  they  can  only  play  after  the  great 
human  nature  and  expectation  that  lie  latent  and  must  urge 
outward. 

So  it  does  not  take  much,  after  all,  of  implement  and  form  to 
make  a  life  ;  an  alphabet  holds  a  whole  language,  and  all  the 
books  of  it ;  so  there  was  not  very  much  difference  between 
the  little  girls  in  their  blue  gowns  and  the  children  in  coats  of 
many  colors  ;  not  much  contrast  between  the  going  in  to  cat 
beans  or  porridge  and  unbuttered  bread,  or  home  to  roasted 
chicken,  —  so  that  all  was  good  of  its  kind,  and  they  all  got 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  77 

enough  of  it ;  not  much  contrast  between  the  patchwork- 
sewing  in  the  matron's  room,  and  the  small  stints  in  the 
nursery.  By  and  up  out  of  it  all,  came  the  little  souls  into 
some  larger  hope  and  knowledge ;  some  faint  signifying  to 
themselves  of  things  we  all  grope  after  but  dimty.  It  is  the 
great  facts  of  our  living,  and  not  the  signs  of  it,  that  matter ; 
we  may  solve  mathematical  problems  with  chalk  and  a  board  ; 
a  poor  woman  may  strive  up  toward  order  and  beauty  in  her 
plain  home,  with  only  tin  pans  and  rag-carpets  to  work  with, 
instead  of  statuary  and  velvet ;  a  small  seller  of  tapes  and 
buttons  may  learn  the  laws  of  demand  and  supply  in  a 
village  which  widen  to  the  grand  Economy  of  a  Universe ; 
we  shall  find  out  some  time  what  we  really  have  been  study- 
ing, and  we  may  come  out  more  equal  than  we  think. 

Out  of  their  few  books,  in  like  manner,  these  charit}r-chil- 
dren  made  as  much,  perhaps,  as  they  could  have  done  from 
profounder  ones  and  more  ;  what  was  not  there  they  put  in  ; 
this  is  what  we  all  have  to  do.  They  learned  to  read  and 
spell  from  the  old  lesson-books  which  told  them  things  like 
these :  "  I  am  the  sun.  I  am  very  bright.  I  rise  every 
morning,  and  give  light  and  heat  to  the  world.  I  make  the 
grass  grow  and  the  flowers  bloom.  If  it  were  not  for  me,  all 
things  would  die." —  "  I  am  the  moon.  My  face  is  round.  I 
shine  at  night  when  the  sun  is  gone.  You  cannot  look  at  the 
sun  because  he  is  too  bright,  but  you  can  look  at  me,  for  my 
light  is  mild."  Here  and  there  a  story,  —  of  a  disobedient 
rabbit  who  went  into  the  field  which  his  mother  had  forbidden 
him,  thinking  to  eat  fine  parsle}r,  but  got  poisonous  hemlock 
instead  ;  or  an  Esop's  Fable  ;  or  some  simple  rhymes.  These 
were  to  them  the  sublimity  and  fulness  of  description,  —  (they 
brought  the  things  themselves  to  their  thought,  and  what  can 
sublimity  and  fulness  do  more?)  —  they  were  romance  and 
tragedy,  eclogue  and  epic.  In  these  books  they  passed  by 
nothing ;  not  even  the  homely  scrolls  and  devices  which 
divided  the  sections  and  subjects ;  they  made  them  over  on 
their  slates  ;  a  line  —  a  curve  —  was  a  whole  picture  ;  every- 
thing meant  something,  only  they  could  have  scarcely  told 

wrhaf    if    ia   tl-iaf.    irrvn   roar}  in 


78  HITHERTO : 

the  swell  of  a  hill  against  the  horizon,  or  the  bend  of  a 
shore. 

Hope  read  in  "  Barbauld's  Lessons  ;  "  that  is  all  Addison  and 
Waverley  for  a  child,  as  "  Mother  Goose"  is  Shakespeare. 
She  soon  got  out  of  that  as  a  lesson-book,  and  she  could  enter, 
in  her  way,  into  far  lai'ger  things  when  she  got  hold  of  them  ; 
simplicity  and  scope  go  strangely  together,  with  the  young. 
She  did  not  stagger  at  "Paradise  Lost,"  —  you  shall  hear, 
presently,  how  she  came  by  that,  —  but  she  never  tired  of  the 
story  of  Charles,  and  his  morning  walk  down  the  fields,  and 
his  stepping  on  board  a  vessel,  in  a  truly  spiritual  way,  with- 
out premeditation  or  encumberment,  and  sailing  over  to 
France,  and  just  strolling  down  through  that  country.  France 
•was  only  next  door ;  one  could  put  on  one's  cape  bonnet  and 
drop  in  there.  One  place  opened  to  another,  in  that  way,  to 
her  fancy ;  everything  was  next  door ;  the  world  was  large, 
but  you  could  go  on  and  on  ;  all  ways  led  somewhere,  and 
there  was  no  knowing  what  pleasantness  you  might  come  to. 

She  had  a  basket  or  a  bundle  of  clean  linen,  done  in  the 
laundry,  to  carry  home  sometimes  ;  the  trustiest  children  did 
the  errands  of  the  house.  Hope  always  found  the  place,  and 
she  was  not  gone  too  long ;  yet  she  chose  her  ways  of  going, 
for  all  that. 

The  fine  streets  were  near  the  river  ;  it  was  in  this  direction, 
and  up  the  town,  that  she  was  ordinarily  sent ;  so  she  could  come 
a  long  way  homeward,  often,  following  the  water-side.  She 
delighted  in  making  out  new  turns  ;  it  was  like  going  journeys 
to  traverse  different  squares,  or  take  a  new  cross-street,  and 
come  out  at  fresh  points.  But  the  water  was  the  unfailing 
charm ;  something  came  to  her,  when  she  caught  its  spai'kle, 
of  the  old  dim  pictures  of  her  infancy  when  she  lived  in 
the  little  forest  home.  There  was  the  wonder  of  whence 
it  came  and  where  it  was  going ;  where  the  vessels  went  that 
she  saw  sail  up  and  down ;  which  was  France,  and  which 
New  Hampshire,  — for  she  had  not  regularly  begun  Geography 
yet,  and  the  most  she  knew  was  by  Barbauld  and  tradition. 

There  were  wide  openings  between  the  scattered  buildings 
on  that  side  and  the  blue  river-edge  ;  over  across  were  long, 


A    STORY  OF   YESTJ5KDAYS.  79 

green,  sloping  bills.  At  one  place,  from  a  broad  wooden 
wharf  a  little  ferry-boat  plied  to  and  fro;  she  wanted  so  to 
get  in  and  go  over  in  it,  and  climb  up  on  the  opposite  shore 
to  the  crest  of  tke  high  land,  and  see  what  there  was  bej'ond. 
She  would  run  all  the  way  to  do  her  errand  and  to  get  back 
here,  that  she  might  have  a  little  while  to  linger.  One  day 
she  had  leave  for  Barbara  Graice  to  go  with  her.  The  scrupu- 
lous division  of  labor  in  this  establishment  seldom  permitted 
two  to  be  sent  upon  one  errand.  But  Barbara  ought  to  learn 
the  way  about ;  Hope  could  not  always  go ;  also  Hope  was 
a  good  and  trustworthy  child,  and  deserved  an  indulgence. 
So  the  matron  said  yes  ;  and  hand  in  hand,  as  happy  as  two 
little  royal  highnesses,  the  two  little  pauper-orphans  set  forth 
together. 

Hope  liked  Barbara  because  she  was  quiet,  and  would  lis- 
ten ;  and  Hope  always  had  so  much  to  tell !  They  read  sto- 
ries together  in  their  play-hours  sometimes  ;  stories  that  Bar- 
bara Graice  would  never  have  sat  down  to  read  by  herself,  — 
she  would  rather  have  played  at  tag,  the  good  of  which  was 
more  apparent ;  but  with  Hope's  elocution  and  commentaries 
and  enlargements  they  became  enchanting. 

Some  good  soul  among  the  Lady  Managers  had  given  the 
blue-gowned  children  a  year's  volume  of  the  "  Juvenile  Miscel- 
lany." Very  good  girls  were  allowed  to  take  it  of  a  Saturday 
afternoon.  Hope  worked  grandly  at  her  small,  tedious  tasks, 
and  earned  the  reward  often  ;  sometimes  for  an  extra  half 
hour  that  was  not  on  a  Saturday.  Then  she  would  find  Bar- 
bara, and  go  and  sit  with  her  at  the  staircase  window  that 
overlooked  the  school-yard  next  door,  and  was  crossed  diago- 
nally by  the  ascending  steps,  so  that  you  had  seat,  and  table, 
and  footstool,  if  you  wanted  them,  all  at  once,  and  the  pleas- 
ant out-look  besides. 

They  had  in  this  volume  the  exciting  history  of  "  Catherine 
Bennet ;  or,  The  Week's  Probation."  Also,  "  Susans'  Visit  to 
the  Country  : "  how  Catharine  lost  and  kept  her  temper,  and 
what  befell  and  tempted  her  from  day  to  clay  ;  how  she  did  not 
go  to  the  party,  but  did  go  at  last,  to  stay  at  her  aunt's  instead, 
where  there  was  a  "  lawn"  —  whatever  that  was,  —  and  a  pond  ; 


80  HITHERTO  : 

how  Susan  travelled  in  the  stage-coach,  and  fed  the  chickens, 
and  went  to  church,  and  carried  a  green  parasol ;  these  sug- 
gested worlds  for  the  imagination  to  revel  in ;  and  Hope 
could  tell  Barbara  Graice  a  score  of  things  more  than  were  put 
down  in  the  book. 

"  Catharine  had  brown,  curly  hair,  like  that  pretty  girl  that 
comes  to  the  school  to  fetch  her  little  sister ;  and  she  wore  a 
dark-red  gown  like  hers,  and  a  white  ruffle  in  her  neck  ;  and 
there  was  one  little  chicken  at  Susan's  grandmother's  that 
had  a  speckled  breast  and  a  white  tail." 

"  How  do  you  know? "  says  Barbara. 

"  Why,  I  just  think  hard,  and  then  I  see  'em.  Shut  your 
eyes  and  try." 

Then  Barbara  would  shut  her  eyes,  and  see  —  exactly  noth- 
ing. 

"  I'll  ask  Miss  Hammond  to  let  you  go  up  to  Tower  Street 
with  me  to-morrow,  with  Mrs.  Jameson's  basket,  and  coming 
home  I'll  show  you  the  country." 

"  Shall  I  have  to  shut  my  eyes  ?  Because  I  can't  see  any- 
thing so,  and  I  don't  see  how  you  do  it." 

"  No.  It's  outside,  and  close  by,  almost.  The  other  things 
are  inside,  you  know,  and  a  great  way  off,  somehow." 

This  was  the  way  that  it  came  about,  and  that  they  walked 
up  to  Tower  Street  hand  to  hand,  and  came  back  along  the 
river. 

It  was  a  bright  day,  and  the  light  sparkled  on  the  little  blue 
tips  of  the  waves,  and  behind  the  green  hills  opposite,  and 
overhead  the  sky  was  deep,  and  clear,  and  splendid. 

"  TJiat's  the  country,"  says  Hope,  in  a  magnificent  way,  as 
if  she  were  showing  some  grand  domain  of  her  own,  or  a  con- 
tinent that  she  had  discovered,  —  "  the  real  country." 

"Where  Susan  went?" 

"  Yes,  only  she  went  up  a  long  road  behind  those  hills,  that 
leads  away  oif,  up  and  down,  and  over  bridges,  and  past  fields 
and  ponds,  and  through  dark  woods,  till  at  last  3-011  come  to 
it,  —  a  great  white  house  with  a  green  fence  before  it,  and  a 
swing  in  the  garden  ;  and  Susan's  grandmother  has  got  a  rose- 
bush in  the  window." 


A   STORY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  81 

"  You  never  told  me  that  before." 

"  I  just  noticed  it,"  says  Hope.  "  You  can't  see  everything 
at  once.  There's  ever  so  much  more  there,  and  in  other  places. 
Barbara !  "  she  began  again,  suddenly,  after  a  pause,  "  there's 
a  story  about  us,  too,  somewhere." 

"O  Hope!  that's  an  awful — jiggermaree  !  "  She  wouldn't 
say  "fib"  to  Hope. 

"  No,  it  aint.  Maybe  it  isn't  put  in  a  book  yet ;  but  there 
is  a  story  ;  and  somebody  can  shut  up  their  eyes,  somewhere, 
and  see  it,  I  know  ! " 

"  Stories  aint  true  things.  Miss  Hammond  says  so.  And 
•when  you  shut  your  e}7es  you  aint  really  there  ! " 

"  You  can't  see  anything  that  isn't,"  says  Hope,  positively. 
"  And  whatever  there  is,  somebody  will  see.  Up  in  heaven, 
at  any  rate." 

"  I'd  lieveser  they  wouldn't  be  shutting  their  eyes  and  peek- 
ing at  me.  And  I  don't  believe  it.  It's  only  a  pretend." 

"  You  can't  pretend  what  there  isn't"  Hope  persisted. 

A  schooner,  with  sails  white  in  the  sunlight,  came  floating 
up  before  the  gentle,  steady  breeze  from  the  south,  just  out- 
side the  edge  of  the  swift,  downward  river  current,  closer  and 
closer,  till  they  could  hear  the  captain's  voice,  ordering  his 
crew  of  three  men  and  a  boy,  and  the  rattle  of  the  ropes,  and 
the  flap  of  the  canvas,  as  they  began  to  shorten  sail  and  wear 
in  toward  the  shore. 

Right  toward  the  wharf-head  upon  which  they  stood,  she 
came.  This  had  never  happened  before  when  Hope  had  been 
here.  She  was  quite  awed  to  see  it.  That  a  vessel,  straight 
from  she  knew  not  where,  —  France,  perhaps,  as  likely  as  not, 
—  and  going,  by  and  by,  ma}rbe,  up  where  the  water  first 
gleamed  in  sight  under  a  distant  hill-foot,  and  still  up,  into 
the  forests  and  past  the  towns,  like  one  of  her  own  dreams,  that 
started  from  what  she  knew,  and  drifted  far  into  the  beautiful 
and  rich  unseen  out  of  which  all  knowledges  came,  —  it  made 
her  catch  her  breath,  and  hold  Barbara's  hand  hard,  and  look 
with  great  eyes  filled  with  wonder. 

Somebody,  whose  business  it  was,  seeing  the  craft  approach, 
ran  down  the  wharf,  and  warned  the  children  out  of  the  way ; 
6 


82  .  HITHERTO  : 

a  great  rope  was  flung  from  the  vessel's  bow  and  fell  upon  the 
pier ;  this  man  caught  it,  passed  it  quickly  round  an  oak  post 
that  stood  there,  solid  and  shiny,  and  made  it  fast.  The  men 
on  board  took  hold,  and  began  to  warp  in  ;  and  presently  the 
hills  opposite  were  cut  up  into  little  separate  pictures  between 
the  masts  and  yards  and  the  great,  wrinkled  rolls  of  sails 
furled  up  to  these,  and  the  slender  tips  of  the  topmost  spars 
made  delicate  lines  above  the  highest  swell  of  the  green  land, 
against  the  deep,  clear  blue. 

Only  two  idle  children,  who  had  no  business  there,  hanging 
round  to  watch  a  river-schooner  come  up  to  her  mooring-place  ; 
but  one  of  these,  at  least,  was  getting  glimmerings  of  strange, 
untold  intuitions  that  had  to  do  with  the  great  intercourse  be- 
tween far  lands  ;  with  all  swift,  sure,  and  beautiful  messenger- 
ings  ;  dimly  and  unaware,  with  a  communing  yet  more  mysti- 
cal and  interior  ;  a  reaching  through  some  medium  rarer  than 
fluent  wave  or  viewless  air,  breathing  of  real,  white-pinioned 
thoughts,  driven  of  the  heavenly  forces  back  and  forth,  mak- 
ing the  joyful  commerce  of  the  spheres.  Some  eyes  are  so 
anointed  from  the  birth ;  anointed  to  the  gradual  seeing ;  men 
as  trees  walking,  at  the  first ;  but  the  feeling  of  some  full, 
possible  vision  is  upon  them ;  hints  of  what  all  things  show 
make  all  things  wonderful.  A  little  charity-girl  in  a  blue 
gown ;  ignorant ;  all  the  toil  of  the  world's  mechanism  of 
learning  before  her ;  but  a  soul,  nevertheless,  touched  with  a 
spark  of  God's  own  light,  by  which  she  caught  continually 
that  which  lies  behind  all  words. 

A  woman  and  a  little  child  were  on  the  deck ;  they  came  up 
out  of  the  cabin  just  as  the  rope  was  flung ;  the  child's  face 
was  rosy  and  shining  from  fresh  soap-and-water,  and  her  hair 
was  damp,  and  curled  up  round  her  temples  where  the  comb 
had  been  drawn  through.  The  woman  had  put  on  her  shawl 
and  bonnet,  —  they  were  the  captain's  wife  and  little  daughter, 
—  presently  they  were  going  ashore. 

"Oh,  see!"  said  Hope.  "She>has  come  in  the  vessel! 
She  belongs  there  !  " 

A  plank  had  been  thrown  from  the  vessel's  side  to  the  wharf, 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  83 

and  up  this  the  captain,  a  young,  brown,  hearty  fellow,  canie 
springing,  as  Hope  spoke. 

The  little  child,  with  the  damp,  curling  hair,  had  taught  him 
to  be  "  noticing  of  children,"  as  his  wife  said  ;  and  when  he 
saw  Hope's  eager  face,  he  paused. 

"You'd  like  to  go  on  board,  maybe?"  he  said,  kindly. 
"  Antoinette  !  I  shan't  be  ready  for  ten  minutes  to  go  down 
town  with  you.  See  to  these  little  folks,  will  you,  if  they 
want  to  look  about !  " 

Hope  wondered,  at  first,  if  he  could  be  speaking  to  his  ves- 
sel;  for  she  had  spelled  out  "Antoinette"  upon  her  bows. 
But  it  was  his  wife,  for  whom  his  vessel  was  named  ;  and  she 
was  already  smiling,  and  the  captain's  hand  was  held  out  to 
Hope  to  help  her  down  the  plank  if  she  would  go.  "  You 
needn't  be  afraid,"  he  said. 

But  it  was  something  else  that  hindered  honest  Hope. 

"  I  thank  3rou,  sir,  but  I  guess  I  oughtn't,"  she  replied. 
"  It's  time  for  me  to  go  back  now,  and  I've  been  trusted  to 
take  Barbara  Graice." 

"  I  guess  you  always  will  be  trusted,"  cried  John  Drake,  the 
captain,  looking  into  her  straight,  clear  eyes.  "  "Where  do 
you  live?  " 

"House  of  Industry,  and  Asylum  for  the  Indigent,"  re- 
peated Hope.  "  I  aint  the  Indigent ;  that's  the  old  ladies.  I 
go  errands.  That's  how  I  came  here." 

•  "  Maybe  j'ou'll  go  an  errand  again  —  this  wa}'.  Antoinette 
and  I  will  be  here  till  to-morrow  night."  She  did  not  know 
now,  whether  he  meant  Mrs.  Drake,  or  the  schooner,  and  it 
seemed  to  make  very  little  difference. 

"  I'll  ask  leave,"  said  Hope.  "  I  don't  suppose  I  ought, 
without."  And  so,  with  her  head  over  her  shoulder,  with  a 
longing,  backward  look,  but  a  great  determination  in  all  the 
rest  of  her,  she  took  Barbara  Graice  by  the  hand  and  turned 
away ;  walking  fast  up  the  wharf,  and  breaking  to  a  run  when 
she  had  turned  the  corner  upon  the  street. 

"That  was  pretty  hard,"  she  said,  checking  her  speed,  and 
drawing  a  long  breath,  when  they  had  run  two  or  three 
squares. 


84  HITHERTO: 

"What?"  said  Barbara. 

"  Coming  away.  If  he'd  coaxed  me  a  little  bit,  I'm  afraid 
I  shouldn't." 

"  Coaxed?  To  go  down  that  steep  plank,  over  the  water? 
J -wouldn't  have  gone — for  a  fourpence  !  " 

Hope  was  half  glad  to  hear  that.  To-morrow,  if  there  was 
a  basket,  and  Barbara  wouldn't  want  to  come  too,  she  might 
get  leave. 

She  made  three  squares  of  patchwork  that  afternoon,  and 
when  she  carried  them  to  Miss  Hammond  she  presented  her 
request. 

Miss  Hammond  was  dubious. 

Hope  lifted  her  clear  eyes  up  at  her ;  golden-brown  eyes  she 
had,  almost  translucent  in  their  sunshiny  color ;  it  was  like 
looking  into  a  forest  brook  where  it  comes  out  from  under  the 
shadow  into  pure  day,  to  read  them. 

"  I'll  be  proper  careful,"  she  said  ;  "  and  I  won't  stay  long. 
There  was  a  kind  lady,  the  captain's  wife,  and  his  little  girl ; 
O  Miss  Hammond,  please  !  He  told  her  to  see  to  me." 

Miss  Hammond  knew  that,  if  she  chose,  the  child  might 
have  done  the  thing  without  the  asking.  She  reasoned  from 
this  truth,  that  it  must  all  be  as  she  said.  She  knew  the 
place ;  it  was  above  the  busy  wharves  where  the  rush  of  city 
trade  came  in ;  it  was  one  of  those  up-river  schooners  that 
picked  up  their  freight  from  place  to  place  as  they  came  down, 
and  discharged  their  return  lading  in  liko  manner.  She  was 
wise,  and  trusted  Hope. 

"  After  school,  at  eleven  o'clock,  you  can  carry  a  basket  up 
to  Mrs.  Gilspey's.  .And  I'll  give  you  till  the  clock  strikes 
twelve.  When  you  hear  that,  you  must  start  for  home.  And 
you  needn't  sa}T  anything  about  it  either,  among  the  other 
children,"  she  added. 

"  I  will,  ma'am,  certain  true.  And  I  won't ;  not  a  single, 
identical  word." 

Hope  plumed  herself  upon  no  favor  or  importance ;  she 
simply  saw,  as  Miss  Hammond  herself  did,  that  it  would 
hardly  do  to  make  a  precedent ;  not  that  she  ever  heard  the 
word ;  but,  as  has  been  said,  she  was  quick  at  seeing  things. 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  85 

Words  are  made  after  these.  She  knew  them  when  she  came 
to  them,  by  an  instinct.  They  fitted  exactly  to  something  she 
had  already  got. 

The  next  day,  when  she  reached  the  pier,  Antoinette  was 
there  and  "  Theress,"  the  child,  but  John  Drake  had  gone  into 
the  town  to  attend  to  his  business.  Antoinette  came  up  the 
gang-plank  to  meet  the  little  visitor  and  help  her  on  board ; 
Theress  jumped  up  and  down  upon  the  deck,  and  clapped  her 
hands  to  see  her  coming.  They  told  each  other  their  names 
first,  —  Hope  and  Theress,  —  that  was  the  way  they  pro- 
nounced this  last,  and  then  they  went  all  over  the  vessel. 

Theress  showed  Hope  the  little  blue  chest,  —  a  real  sailor's 
chest, — which  was  her  own,  and  in  which  she  kept  all  her 
clothes ;  this  had  a  till  inside  which  held  her  especial  treas- 
ures, —  a  paper-box,  with  cotton- wool,  on  which  lay  a  bit  of 
cut  purple  glass,  and  a  few  dozen  little  scarlet  guinea-peas 
with  black  eyes ;  little  miracles  of  beauty  they  seemed  to 
Hope,  and  when  Theress  gave  her  four  of  them  for  her  own, 
it  was  as  if  the  Queen  of  England'  had  sent  her  the  Koh- 
i-noor  ;  there  would  have  been  room  for  no  higher  ecstasy 
or  gratitude  in  her  at  that.  Also,  there  was  in  a  tiny  blue 
hat-box  a  real  little  black  beaver  hat,  about  two  inches  high, 
made  by  Theress'  cousin,  who  was  a  journe3:man  hatter  in 
New  York. 

"  Do  you  live  here  all  the  time  ?  "  asked  Hope. 

"All  the  summer-times,"  said  Theress.  "We  don't  keep 
house  ;  we  keep  schooner.  It's  cheaper  living ;  and  it's  real 
fun,"  she  went  on,  blending  the  quoted  pleasantry  and  pru- 
dence of  her  elders  with  her  own  little  jolly  originalities.  "  In 
the  winters  we  stay  at  grandma's,  way  up  to  Grindon." 

"  Oh,  what  is  up  the  river,  please  ?  "  cried  Hope,  reminded 
by  that,  and  turning  round  to  Mrs.  Drake  for  fuller  answer 
than  Theress  could  give. 

"  Farms  and  towns  ;  each  way,  with  bridges  across  ;  woods 
sometimes  where  you  sail  along  at  night  in  still,  shady  water, 
with  the  bushes  bending  down  over  the  banks,  and  great  trees 
filling  up  all  the  sky  except  a  little  river  full  of  stars,"  said 
Antoinette  Drake,  talking  unconscious  poetry  in  her  simple 


86  HITHERTO: 

way.  Because,  you  see,  she  lived  in  the  midst  of  it,  and 
breathed  it  in  ;  she  could  give  forth  nothing  else,  answering 
a  question  like  that.  It  was  matter  of  fact  to  her.  You 
might  have  found  her  common  and  practical  enough,  try  her 
at  other  points  ;  her  cookery,  for  example,  or  her  gowns,  or  her 
visits  ashore  in  the  great  towns ;  utterly  so  at  an  abstract 
thought,  perhaps. 

"And  people?"  went  on  Hope. 

"Oh,  yes ;  people,  of  course ;  people  everywhere,  except 
in  the  woods." 

"  It's  queer,"  said  Hope,  meditatively. 

"What?"  asked  Mrs.  Drake.  "Queer  that  there  should 
be  people  ?  If  there  warn't,  what  should  we  go  up  and  down 
for?" 

"  It's  queer  that  they  should  be  there,  and  I  should  be  here. 
And  if  I  was  there,  that  would  be  here." 

"  To-morrow'll  be  to-day,  when  it  comes,"  said  Antoinette, 
as  if  she  had  cheapened  one  wonder  by  bringing  forward 
another.  ^ 

"  Does  this  river  rise  in  the  mountains?  "  queried  Hope,  re- 
membering the  geography  lessons  she  had  caught  scraps  of  in 
school. 

"  Yes,  and  comes  down  through  them.  But  the  schooner 
can't  go  up  there." 

"  How  does  it  rise  ?  "  Hope  had  dim  idea,  perhaps,  of  some 
grand  apparitional  birth,  in  full  grandeur,  of  flood  and  mist, 
out  of  awful  recesses. 

"  Oh,  it  just  begins,  that's  all.  As  likely  as  not  you  could 
put  the  first  of  it  into  a  waterpail  or  a  pint  bowl ;  only  it 
keeps  coming." 

"That's  a  great  '  only,' isn't  it?  It  seems  to  me  every- 
thing is  '  only.'  I  mightn't  be  anywhere  in  the  world  ;  that 
seems  so  funny  sometimes ;  only  God  did  make  me.  God 
mightn't  have  been,  either ;  and  then  there  wouldn't  have 
been  anything  at  all.  Only  he  is." 

"  I  guess  you're  an  odd  little  stick,"  said  Mrs.  Drake. 

"  How  should  you  like  to  go  up  river,  yourself?  "  she  asked 
Hope,  presently. 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  87 

"  I'm  going,  some  time.     I've  just  made  up  my  mind." 

"  You're  one  of  the  sort  that  can't  be  got  ahead  of.  I'd 
like  John  to  come  back  and  talk  to  you  a  spell." 

John  did  come  before  she  went.  He  showed  her  other 
things,  that  she  had  not  seen,  —  the  wheel,  and  how  it  moved 
the  rudder,  and  how  that  steered  the  vessel ;  a  long  chart  — 
picture,  she  called  it  —  of  the  river,  with  the  channels  and 
rocks  and  islands  and  landings,  all  marked  out,  and  the  names 
of  the  towns  on  the  shores. 

"Mr.  Captain,"  she  said  to  him,  very  seriously,  after  they 
had  come  to  easy  friendliness  over  this,  "  if  ever  you  see  any 
people  up  the  river  that  would  like  to  have  a  little  girl  come 
to  live  with  them,  will  3-011  tell  'em  to  come  to  the  asylum  and 
get  me?  Folks  take  girls  so,  and  Miss  Hammond  says  I'm  to 
be  bound  out,  or  adopted,  or  something,  soon.  You  see  I'd 
like  it  to  be  vp  the  river,  because  there  it  grows  green  and 
pleasant ;  down,  there  are  the  dirty  wharves  and  streets,  and 
then  they  say  you  come  out  to  where  it's  all  water  ;  and  then, 
perhaps,  I'd  have  to  go  to  France.  I'd  rather  go  up  toward 
the  mountains  !  " 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  mountains  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  remember  I  used  to  live  there,  a  great  many  years 
ago. 

Just  four  it  was ;  Hope  was  eleven,  now ;  but  a  strange 
dimness  of  antiquity  had  gathered  over  that  small  past  of  hers, 
out  of  which  an  older  perception  would  apprehend  that  she 
had  but  barety  come. 

John  Drake  smiled. 

"  She's  a  little  old-fashioned  thing,  as  ever  you  see,"  said 
Antoinette,  by  way  of  helping  him,  wife-fashion,  to  recognize 
that  which  was  before  his  eyes,  but  which  had  happened  to 
come  first  before  her  own. 

"  She's  smart  and  knowing  too,"  she  added.  "  If  anybody 
did  want  a  girl  to  bring  up  —  I  guess  I'll  mention  it  in 
Grindon." 

"  I  don't  think  that  place  sounds  pretty,"  said  Hope. 
"  Here's  one  that  does,"  she  went  on,  returning  to  the  ex- 
amination of  the  chart,  —  "  '  Broadfields.'  That  seems  large, 


88  HITHERTO .' 

and  green,  and  sunshiny.  I'd  like  to  go  there.  I  wish  you'd 
mention  me  in  Bfoadfields,"  she  added,  very  gravely. 

"  I  guess  I  will,"  said  John  Drake.  "You've  pitched  on 
the  very  picture  of  a  place  for  prettiness,  of  all  that's  on  the 
river.  And  likeliness,  too,  for  that  matter,"  he  added.  "  Now 
supposing  you  see  if  you  can  eat  a  big  apple."  And  he 
pulled  out  of  his  coat-pocket,  turning  it  inside  out  as  he  did 
so,  with  the  bulk  of  the  fruit  and  his  own  fist  grasping  it,  an 
enormous  red  apple ;  red  all  over,  shining  and  dazzling ;  red 
half  through,  he  told  her,  —  "  see  if  it  wasn't." 

"  I've  got  another  in  my  other  pocket  for  Theress,"  he  said, 
as  he  perceived  her  hesitate. 

"  I  thought  something  smelt  apple-y,"  said  Hope,  quite  ex- 
cited, and  coloring  up  with  gratitude.  "  Just  like  Mrs.  Gils- 
pey's  back  garden.  Thank  you,  sir.  I'll  give  a  piece  to 
Barbara  Graice,  and  one  to  old  Mrs.  Whistler.  She's  one  of 
the  Indigents.  There'll  be  ever  so  many  pieces."  There 
always  were  ever  so  many  pieces  in  any  pleasure  that  came  to 
Hope. 

Just  at  that  instant,  the  great  church  clock  in  Tower  Street 
began  its  stroke  of  twelve. 

"  There  !  I've  got  to  go  back  now,  straight  away,"  she  said, 
jumping  up,  prompt  as  Cinderella  at  her  first  ball.  "  But  I 
don't  care  !  I've  had  such  a  good  time  !  " 

John  Drake  helped  her  up  the  plank.  "  I'll  bear  it  in  mind 
about  Broadfields,"  he  said.  "I  shall  be  at  New  Oxford  to- 
morrow. That's  the  end  of  my  run ;  schooners  don't  go 
higher  than  that.  Broadfields  is  the  next  place.  There's 
mostly  folks  down,  and  I  know  some  of  'em.  I  shouldn't 
much  wonder  if  you  got  a  chance,  some  time  ;  not  right  off, 
this  trip,  perhaps." 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Hope.  "  I  don't  ever  have  things  right  off, 
hardly.  One  of  these  days."  She  promised  herself,  as  other 
people  promised  her. 


A   STORY  OF  YESTERDAYS. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

HARM'S  PROVIDEXCE. 

HOPE  took  her  patchwork,  and  went  up  into  the  Old  Ladies' 
Room.  She  had  her  piece  of  apple,  also,  to  carry  to  Mrs. 
Whistler ;  she  had  kept  it  all,  untouched,  for  three  days,  till 
Saturday  afternoon  came  ;  and  she  had  the  whole  story  of  the 
schooner,  and  the  river-picture,  and  Antoinette  and  Theress, 
and  the  blue  chest,  and  the  kind,  hearty  captain  himself,  to 
tell  to  her  old  friend. 

It  was  a  long  room,  with  six  windows  in  it ;  three  at  each 
end  ;  two  large  chambers  and  two  little  dressing-rooms  had 
been  thrown  into  one  apartment,  taking  the  whole  third  story 
of  the  house.  The  floor  was  bare,  scrubbed  white ;  there 
were  strips  of  carpet  laid  down  beside  the  beds,  which  were 
single,  all  alike,  ranged  with  their  heads  against  the  wall  on 
either  side  the  fireplace ;  one  also  in  each  square  recess 
formed  by  the  taking  in  of  the  little  dressing-rooms  just 
mentioned,  which  had  been  at  the  ends  of  the  passage. 

These  recesses  were  the  desirable  places,  — the  corner  lots  ; 
having  a  window  and  some  extra  space,  and  the  advantage  of 
comparative  retirement ;  next  to  these  were  held  in  high  con- 
sideration the  cots  precisely  opposite,  with  a  window  in  each 
narrow  passage  alongside,  the  special  franchise  of  their  oc- 
cupants ;  the  places  by  the  fire  ranked  third,  —  in  winter  per- 
haps took  precedence.  The  four  who  lodged  between  floated 
about ;  considered  the  middle  windows  theirs  of  right,  but 
went  visiting,  —  especially  in  the  square  before  the  fire  in 
fire-times  ;  the  coterie  here,  indeed,  of  a  frozen  winter's  day, 
became  a  grand  assembly. 

These  old  women  had  their  etiquettes,  their  cliques,  their 
jealousies  and  rivalries,  their  real  friendships.  Some  of  them 


90  HITHERTO  : 

had  their  visiting  lists,  also,  of  people  outside  ;  friends  of  old 
times  who  came  to  see  them  ;  benefactresses  who  remembered 
their  wants  and  infirmities  with  little  gifts  ;  each  section  of  the 
.  room  displayed  in  its  comforts  and  small  adornments,  the  re- 
sources, in  such  wise,  of  its  owner.  Here  came  in  one 
rivalry,  the  constant  and  prevailing  one ;  another,  was  in  the 
number  and  severity  of  past  misfortunes. 

An  old  woman  who  could  tell  a  tale  of  better  days,  when 
her  husband  had  sailed  an  India  ship  for  rich  owners,  and  she 
had  lived  in  a  pretty  two-story  house  in  a  sea-coast  village, 
"  with  carpets  to  all  the  floors,  and  white  curtains  to  the  win- 
dows, and  real  china  in  the  closet,"  —  of  a  terrible  hurt  he  got 
at  sea,  and  being  brought  home  on  his  back,  a  cripple  for  the 
rest  of  his  days,  and  of  his  "living  along  most  mysteriously 
by  the  will  of  God  "  till  all  their  saved-up  funds  were  spent ; 
of  a  fire  that  came  after  he  had  died,  and  "  neighbors  had  come 
forrud  and  made  up  a  purse,  and  the  old  owners  had  sent 
down  a  hundred  dollars,  and  she  had  just  begun  to  get  cleared 
-up  and  settled  down,  and  thinking  of  a  little  comfort  taking 
in  a  couple  of  boarders,  and  house  and  carpets  and  curtains 
had  been  burnt  up,  and  most  of  the  china  broke  a-saving  of 
it ; "  of  going  out  nursing  after  that,  and  "  living  round 
amongst  pains  and  aches  till  she  got  so  many  of  her  own  she 
had  to  come  here  with  'em,  and  lay  out  to  make  the  best  she 
could  of  'em,  and  thank  God  "they  was  no  wuss,  and  she'd  got 
the  east  corner  where  the  sun  came  in  o'  mornings,"  —  she, 
perhaps,  carried  the  palm ;  but  it  was  disputed  by  another 
who  had  lost  her  husband  in  early  youth,  out  West,  where 
they  had  begun  on  a  farm  ;  had  had  fever  and  ague,  "  till  the 
courage  was  nigh  shook  out  of  her ; "  had  got  home  again 
somehow,  to  the  East,  and  brought  up  her  two  children,  a  girl 
and  a  boy ;  the  girl  married  a  well-to-do  country  trader,  and 
then,  "  before  s'ever  they'd  got  into  the  new  house  he  built,  she 
went  and  died  ; "  and  the  boy  would  learn  a  painter's  trade, 
"  though  she  knew 'twas  awful  unwholesome,  and  nev«h,wholly 
give  in  to  it ;  and  there  !  three  years  ngo  he  died,  of  $ison  on 
the  lungs,  and  she  came  here,  and  she'd  got  an  inside-bed 
and  no  rocking-chair,  and  was  wore  to  death  hearin'  of  Miss 


A    STORY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  91 

Parcher's  china." —  "You've  had  your  bread  and  butter,  some 
of  it,"  she  would  say,  reproachfully  to  the  shipmaster's  widow, 
when  they  strove  in  lamentation  together  ;  "  but  mine  alwers 
slipped  clean  through  my  fingers,  butter-side  down  !  " 

Mrs.  Whistler  never  joined  in  these  comparisons  of  ill ;  she 
dwelt  as  it  were  in  a  silent  consciousness  of  greatness,  —  meek, 
thankful  soul  as  she  truly  was  !  — knowing  that  her  long  pain, 
of  cureless  disease,  had  only  to  be  named  to  swallow  up,  like 
an  Aaron's  rod,  all  lesser  plaints  ;  and  when  her  nights  and  days 
of  sutferings  came,  as  they  would  at  intervals,  —  when  her 
envied  west  corner,  the  best  in  all  the  room,  was  full  of  a  low, 
patient  moan,  —  these  tellings  and  strivings  hushed  them- 
selves about  her,  and  her  housemates  would  look  over  at  her, 
stealthily  and  pitifully,  and  lean  their  heads  together  and 
whisper  questionings  of  whether  "  she'd  go  this  time,"  and  after 
a  decent  pause  and  with  the  preface  of  a  sigh,  would  wonder 
"  who'd  get  the  corner  after  her ;  'twould  seem  strange  to  see 
another  body  there  ; "  and  then  a  closing  sigh  would  make 
the  sentence  properly  parenthetical. 

Mrs.  Whistler  sat  and  sewed  upon  fine  cambric ;  she  was 
making,  stitch  by  stitch,  her  cap  and  shroud  ;  but  it  might  have 
been  a  young  girl  busy  at  her  wedding  finery,  for  the  cheer 
there  would  be  about  her  on  her  well  days  when  she  could  so 
work.  Up  over  her  head  was  a  little  book-case  of  two  shelves  ; 
here  she  had  some  old,  friendly  volumes  that  had  lived  with 
her  through  all  that  history  of  years  that  she  never  in  its  con- 
tinuity related  ;  some,  also,  that  a  kindness  of  to-day  had 
placed  there  for  their  pleasant  pictures  and  comfortable  thoughts. 

Hope  read  out  of  these  aloud  to  her,  sometimes  ;  sometimes 
she  had  a  book  to  carry  away  and  read  herself,  by  the  stair- 
case window  ;  this  was  how  she  came  by  "  Paradise  Lost." 

She  held  up  the  great  piece  of  apple,  —  almost  the  half, 
freshly  cut,  —  the  red  side  out,  toward  Mrs.  Whistler. 

"That's  for  you  —  to  begin  with,"  she  said;  and  so  she 
pulled  a  little  cricket,  and  sat  down. 

"  Mann's  Providence,  again,  dear,"  said  the  old  woman. 
"  First  a-waiting  and  a-vrnnting  ;  and  then  presently  you  know 
why.  It's  just  like  the  day  my  gruel  got  burnt,  and  then- Miss 


92  HITHERTO: 

Ainsworth  came  in  with  that  elegant  chicken  broth.  I've  been 
thirsty  ever  since  my  dinner,  —  the  soup  was  salt  to-day, — 
and  not  a  drink  of  water  in  the  room,  nor  anybody  hap- 
pening in  to  go  and  fetch  one.  It  was  just  that  piece  of  apple 
on  the  way  and  ray  mouth  a-making  up  for  it." 

Hope  knew  what  "Harm's  Providence"  meant;  she  had 
asked  that  question  and  been  told  about  it  long  before. 

"  It  was  when  we  were  little,  at  home,  that  it  began,"  had 
been  the  story.  "  My  mother  always  set  her  faith  on 
Providence ;  and  father,  he  used  to  call  her  '  marm  ; '  it  was  a 
homely,  old-fashioned,  countiy  way  of  calling,  but  it  meant 
the  whole  with  him,  —  wife,  and  heart's  queen,  and  mainstay, 
and  head,  and  contriver,  and  everything  that  a  woman  could 
be  to  a  man,  or  to  a  house.  I  used  to  think  he  had  Marm, 
and  Marm  had  Providence  ;  though  he  believed  as  firm  as  she 
did  in  his  heart,  only  he  liked  to  lay  it  off  on  to  her,  as  he 
did  everj'thing  else.  He  gave  her  the  credit,  and  let  her  go 
ahead,  and  just  eased  things  along  for  her.  We  had  him,  and 
Marm,  and  Providence,  all  three ;  it  wasn't  likely  but  we 
would  be  well  cared  for.  —  So,  when  airy  thing  looked  a  little 
dubious,  as  if  it  mightn't  work  out  well,  or  we  couldn't  see, 
perhaps,  how  a  thing  was  to  be  done  that  needed  to  be,  he'd 
say,  '  Marm's  Providence  '11  see  to  that,  I  guess  ; '  and  it  al- 
ways did.  After  she  died,  he  kept  on  saying  it,  and  it  kept 
on  coming  true  ;  he  said  it  with  a  different  sound  to  it  though  ; 
—  maybe  it  aint  quite  right,  but  I've  thought  it  might  have 
been  somehow  so  that  Saint  Paul  used  to  say,  '  the  Father  of 
our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.'  I  know  better  now  what  that  means, 
thinking  of  father's  love,  and  mother's  trustingness,  and  how 
he  depended  on  what  she  lived  so  sure  by." 

"  Are  you  pretty  well  to-da}*-  ?  "  asked  Hope. 

"  Well,  child,  yes  ;  and  satisfied.  That's  well.  I  shall  live 
just  long  enough.  I  did  think  I'd  have  been  gone  before  this ; 
but  when  you're  certain,  you  needn't  be  in  a  hurry.  '  Thank 
the  Lord  for  daily  breath,  but  leap  for  joy  at  certain  death,'  — 
that's  what  I  say  to  myself.  The  comfort  and  the  rest  are 
pretty  near.  That's  what  the  ache  and  the  tiredness  mean. 
And  they'll  be  according.  When  I  think  of  that,  it  almost 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  93 

makes  me  greedy  of  pain.  It's  God's  note  of  hand,  Hope. 
Lay  it  up,  —  against  your  time  comes." 

"  And  now,  I've  got  a,  story  to  tell,"  says  Hope.  Not 
breaking  in  disregardfully  ;  she  always  listened  Mrs.  Whistler 
through ;  laying  up,  so,  more  treasure  than  she  counted  at  the 
moment,  "  against  her  time  should  come  ; "  but  with  childish 
straightforwardness,  she  made  no  forced  reply,  took  her  turn 
to  speak,  and  spoke  what  was  waiting  in  her. 

"  How  your  eyes  shine,  child  !  "  said  the  old  lady.  "  Harm's 
Providence  has  been  doing  something  new  for  you  !  " 

"Where  do  you  think  that  apple  came  from?"  Hope  asked, 
her  eyes  sparkling  yet  more,  in  her  impatience  to  tell  all. 

"  Out  of  some  orchard,  where  the  sun  shone  on  it,  and  it 
grew  and  grew,  and  sweetened  and  sweetened,  it  didn't  know 
what  for.  No  more  do  you." 

•  "  But  last  of  all  ?  "  pursued  Hope.  "  You  can't  guess.  I'll 
tell  you.  It  came  up  the  river  in  a  schooner !  At  least,  —  I 
don't  know  ;  but  it  came  out  of  a  man's  pocket  that  had  come 
up  the  river  in  a  schooner,  and  he  was  the  captain  of  it.  How 
do  you  suppose  I  got  it  ?  " 

"  Well,  —  he  met  you  on  the  wharf,  and  gave  it  to  you? " 

"  Oh,  you  can't  half  guess !  "  cried  Hope,  laughing  out. 
"  It  was  a  great  deal  better  than  that !  I  was  in  the  schooner 
with  him  ;  and  Antoinette  was  there,  and  Theress  ;  they  live 
there,  and  go  up  and  down  !  They  told  me  what  was  up  the 
river,  and  he  showed  rne  a  picture  of  it.  There's  woods,  and 
towns,  and  meadows,  and  hills ;  and  people  everywhere. 
Places,  Mrs.  Whistler,  and  chances.  There's  no  knowing  what 
there  might  be  up  that  river  !  " 

Hope  made  very  determined  pauses,  now  and  then,  and  pulled 
her  needle  through  and  through  her  patchwork  seam  diligently  ; 
it  was  needful,  that  her  sewing  might  catch  up  with  her  talk. 
Then  she  began  again. 

o  o 

"  It  goes  so,  in  one  place ; "  and  she  laid  a  strip  of  calico 
down  upon  her  knee,  and  scored  with  her  needle  a  winding  mark 
upon  it.  "  It  makes  a  great  scallop,  and  in  that  scallop  is 
Broadfields.  How  does  that  sound  ?  What  do  you  think  of 
tha't,  for  a  place?  With  hills  behind,  and  the  river  in  front? 


94  HITHERTO : 

He  told  me  so.  And  everything  green  and  wide,  and  nothing 
in  the  way  of  the  sky  ?  " 

"I  think  j^ou'd  like  to  go  there,  sometime,  wouldn't  you? 
Or  to  a  place  like  it?  I  think  your  mouth's  a-making  up  for  it, 
and  I  think  3^011'!!  get  it." 

"  Do  you,  truty,  Mrs.  Whistler  ?  "  Hope's  great  eyes  widened, 
and  their  golden  color  was  clear  and  beaming.  "  L  told  him 
that  I  wished  he'd  mention  me  in  Broadfields,"  she  added,  in  her 
quaint  way,  trying  to  speak  very  quietly  and  reasonably. 
"  And  —  why,  that's  ail  my  story,  every  word  of  it !  I  thought 
I  had  ever  so  much  to  tell !  " 

u  You'll  go."  Mrs.  Whistler  looked  at  the  child  wishfully, 
as  she  repeated  this. 

Hope's  golden  eyes  suddenly  clouded.  "  Oh,  dear ! "  she 
cried,  "  I  never  thought.  You  won't  have  me  to  come  and  see 
you,  if  I  do.  What  will  you  have  instead  ?  " 

"  Marm's  Providence  will  take  care  of  that,"  serenely  quoted 
Mrs.  Whistler  from  the  Family  Creed. 

It  was  a  homely  faith  and  a  homely  phrase  ;  but  the  soul  of  it 
was  as  grand  as  that  of  the  old  Hebrew  refrain, —  "  The  God 
of  Abraham  and  of  Isaac,  and  of  Jacob." 

The  half-hour  bell  rang  below,  and  Hope  folded  up  her  small 
work,  and  stuck  her  needle  in.  At  that  moment  Miss  Ham- 
mond opened  the  Old  Ladies'  door. 

"  Hope  ?  Oh,  you  are  here  ?  You're  wanted,  in  the  matron's 
room." 

"  It's  come  —  the  beginning  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Whistler,  softly 
to  herself.  "  And  I  think  now,  it'll  be  my  turn  pretty  soon. — 
'Up  the  river  —  with  the  hills  behind;  gi-een,  and  wide,  and 
nothing  in  the  way  of  the  sky.' —  '  The  gates  of  it  shall  not  be 
shut  by  day,  and  there  shall  be  no  night  there.  The  Lamb  who 
is  in  the  midst  of  the  throne  shall  feed  them,  and  lead  them 
unto  living  fountains  of  water.  And  there  shall  be  no 
more  pain.  And  God  shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their 
eyes.' " 

The  old  lady  folded  up  her  work  also.  There  were  but  a  few 
stitches  to  be  set.  "  Another  day,"  she  said,  and  stuck  the 
needle  in. 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  95 

Another  day,  only  a  week  later,  somebody  else  finished  the 
last  stitches. 

Somebody  else  might  have  the  west  corner  now. 

Hope  went  sailing  up  the  river.  In  the  still  of  the  sunset, 
and  the  early  beauty  of  the  moon, —  through  calm  wood-shadow, 
looking  up  into  the  "  river  of  stars,"  out  into  meadow-broad- 
enings  where  the  perfect  sphere  of  heaven  arched  over  a  perfect 
plane  of  earth, —  she  went,  making  a  dream-voyage  of  delight. 
She  slept  through  the  mere  midnight ;  when  the  dawn  reddened 
over  the  hills,  she  was  out  on  deck  again  ;  she  saw  the  rosiness 
creep  andblu^h,  and  spread  and  burn  into  the  intense  pervading 
light  of  the  white  day  ;  she  heard  the  cocks  crow  from  the 
cheery  farms,  chanting  their  fresh  "  All  hail !  "  to  the  earth  as 
her  features  came  np  out  the  darkness, —  "  Old  world  !  how  do 
you  do-oo-o?"  A  mystical  stir  everywhere  was  rising  out  of. 
the  hush  of  night ;  the  very  grass-blades  and  the  river-sedge  rus- 
tled as  they  had  not  rustled  before,  and  the  great  trees  stfetched 
their  green  arms  from  their  sleep ;  and  out  on  the  high  road 
she  could  hear  the  distant  sound  of  wagon-wheels  and  horses' 
feet. 

It  was  yet  early  morning  when  they  hauled  up  to  the  pier  at 
New  Oxford.  Up  from  the  water,  street  above  street,  three 
rows  or  four,  the  white  houses  stood,  with  a  green  surge  of 
tree-tops  swelling  up  between ;  and  there  was  a  hum  in  the 
town  of  going  to  and  fro  ;  yet,  compared  with  the  city,  it  was 
still.  It  would  be  stiller  out  toward  Broadfields  ;  almost  as  still 
as  it  had  been  down  the  river  among  the  meadows. 

Hope  stood  by  the  rail,  her  bright  hair  blowing  in  the  pleas- 
ant wind ;  the  morning  sunshine  on  it ;  her  eyes  all  alight 
with  expectation. 

A  young  man,  sitting  in  an  open  wagon  on  the  wharf,  tossed 
the  rein's  over  his  horse's  back,  and  sprang  out.  He  and  John 
Drake  shook  hands.  Then  he  turned  to  the  young  girl  his 
honest,  kindly  face. 

"  You've  come  ?"  he  said;  and  helped  her  up  the  plank  upon 
the  pier. 

A  stranger  in  a  strange  place.     Going  to  a  new  home,  where 


96  HITHERTO: 

there  might  be  good  for  her,  or  there  might  be  ill ;  standing 
between  the  blue,  free,  glistening  river  and  the  busy  town,  as 
she  stood  at  this  moment  between  her  bright  dream  and  the 
reality  that  was  to  come  of  it ;  but  showing  a  pure  certainty 
in  the  clear,  wonderful  eyes,  and  a  fresh,  radiant  eagerness  in 
her  whole  face  and  figure,  over  which  the  morning  suu  was 
shining  and  the  sweet  wind  blew. 

"  What  is  your  name?  "  asked  Richard  Hathaway. 

"  Hope  Devine,"  replied  the  girl,  lifting  the  golden  light  of 
her  eyes  upon  him. 

"  Whew !  "  That  does  not  spell  it ;  it  was  a  low,  gentle 
breathing  of  surprise,  not  rude,  but  blithe  and  musical.  "  I 
think  so!" 

It  had  happened  that  the  busy  early  summer-time  was  com- 
ing ;  and  that  Mrs.  Hathaway's  Martha  needed  help  ;  Richard 
had  seen  it,  as  he  was  quick  to  see  every  want  that  touched  his 
mother. 

It  happened  that  John  Drake  was  Richard  Hathaway's 
friend.  Happened?  This,  also,  was  "Harm's  Providence." 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  97 


CHAPTER  IX. 

WHAT  ANSTISS   DOLBEARE   REMEMBERS. 
SOUTH  SIDE. 

ONE  day  that  next  summer,  Augusta  Hare  came  among  us 
ten  times  more  a  heroine  than  ever.  Where  she  was,  things 
happened.  John  Gilpin  never  rode  a  race  but  she  was  there 
to  sec.  Some  people  seem  to  have  a  sort  of  resinous  electric- 
ity like  this,  which  draws  inevitably  toward  them  all  fly- 
ing shreds,  big  and  little,  of  mortal  circumstance. 

She  came  upon  the  stage  unannounced,  in  borrowed  cloth- 
ing ;  beside  which,  she  had  nothing  on  earth  to  bring  with  her 
but  her  guitar,  and  a  pink  calico  wrapper  ;  a  pink  calico  wrap- 
per, for  her  to  whom  nothing  was  yet  legitimate,  but  crape 
and  bombazine,  or  little  white-dotted  black  muslins  and  cali- 
coes at  the  lightest.  I  remember  how  this  pointed  the  calam- 
ity, and  seemed  to  give  a  dramatic  emphasis  and  underscoring 
to  the  tale  of  general  desecration  and  violence. 

The  Ursuline  Convent  had  been  burned  down  by  a  mob. 

A  little  piece  of  Middle  Age  life  had  been  revived  and  en- 
acted in  our  tamely  proper  New  England  community.  Shriek- 
ing nuns  driven  from  the  sanctity  of  their  cloister ;  the  sacred 
walls  invaded  at  midnight  by  rough,  infuriated  men,  rushing 
where  the  feet  of  men,  since  builders  ended  their  first  labors, 
had  never  penetrated  before.  Quietness  and  holy  seclusion 
changed  in  an  hour  for  riot  and  blazing  devastation. 

Augusta  told  us  all  about  it,  graphically.  How  out  of  a 
sound  sleep,  she  had  been  startled  by  a  rude,  gruff  voice,  and 
a  man's  rough  hand  laid  forcibly  on  her  shoulder.  "  Get  up, 
if  you  want  to  save  your  life  I  "  had  been  the  warning  ;  and  a 
red  torch  went  flashing  past  her  open  door.  How,  in  her  night- 
7 


98  HITHERTO  : 

dress,  with  bare  feet,  and  her  hair  streaming,  catching  at  this 
pink  wrapper  which  happened  to  lie  beside  her  on  a  chair,  she 
sprang  from  her  bed,  and  followed  her  arouser  into  the  cor- 
ridor ;  how  he  spoke  a  little  more  gently  then,  seeing  her 
fright,  —  seeing  also  herself,  I  could  not  help  inferring,  —  and 
even  asked  if  she  had  airy  thing  in  particular  that  she  wished 
to  save.  How,  never  thinking  of  her  clothes,  as  not  one  soul 
in  fifty  ever  does  think  of  the  right  thing  in  a  fire,  she  had  said 
"  her  guitar,"  and  how  he  had  snatched  up  the  case,  and,  taking 
it  under  his  arm,  had  hurried  her  along  the  passages  and  down 
the  stairs,  meeting  wild,  excited  men  at  every  step,  and  out 
into  the  shrubbery,  where  she  overtook  some  fleeing  nuns  ; 
how  they  found  shelter  in  the  town,  and  the  sisters  had  to  put 
on  such  profane  costume  as  people  could  lend  them,  and  she 
"had  nothing  under  the  sun  to  go  downstairs  in  but  that  piuk 
gown." 

Augusta  was  always  personally  circumstantial  in  her  narra- 
tions ;  she  lived  in  the  accessories,  T  think  ;  that  Avas  how  the 
real  things  passed  over  her  so  lightly.  How  she  stood, 
and  what  she  was  doing,  when  a  surprising  or  dreadful  piece 
of  news  came,  —  the  little  touches  of  phase  and  grouping  that 
made  a  picture  of  an  incident,  —  these  were-  given  with  won- 
derful instinctive  skill ;  and  the  strong  light  fell  always  on  the 
principal  figure.  "  Quceque  ipse  vidi  et  quorum  pars  marina 
fui"  If  you  knew  this  little  bit  of  Virgil,  it  came  up.  It 
seemed  realty  charming,  hearing  her  recite  them,  to  have  en- 
dured such  things,  to  have  met  with  such  adventure  ;  above 
all,  to  have  them  now  to  tell. 

The  public  occurrence  excited  strongly  our  little  community. 
Anything  like  lawlessness  was  then  so  rare,  that  men's  minds 
leaped  at  the  suggestion  to  the  wildest  fancies  of  possible  pre- 
vailing anarchy ;  people  stopped  in  the  streets  to  talk  about 
it.  Uncle  Royle's  book-store  was  full  of  eager  gossipers  ;  it 
is  amusing  to  compare  the  stir  made  then  with  the  fleeting 
impressions  of  to-day.  Two  words,  after  a  morning  saluta- 
tion in  a  railroad-car,  are  the  sum  and  end  of  all  the  attention 
any  event  can  claim.  In  those  days,  people  came  long, 


A    SWRY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  99 

separate  wa3rs  to  get  together,  and  when  assembled,  they  would 
talk  the  thing  down  to  the  bare  thread. 

Augusta  Hare  was  regarded  with  intense  curiosity  ;  she  rep- 
resented the  whole  catastrophe,  and  brought  New  Oxford  into 
special  relation  with  it.  Even  after  she  got  a  proper  dress, 
she  was  quite  modest  about  venturing  into  the  streets,  she  was 
looked  at  so  ;  and  at  church,  for  a  Sunday  or  two,  it  was  pos- 
itively awkward.  She  had  remarkable  tact,  though  ;  it  never 
seemed  a  silly,  palpable  affectation  in  her ;  it  was  simply,  I 
believe,  the  sympathetic  action  of  her  own  intense  self-con- 
sciousness that  made  those  about  her  recognize  what  I  can 
only  describe  as  her  centrality. 

And  we,  happy  household !  became,  by  a  singularity  of  cir- 
cumstance, a  part,  also,  of  this  sublimity. 

The  Eclgells  were  away,  and  the  house  was  closed.  Mar- 
garet and  Julia  were  in  the  midst  of  their  summer  term  at 
school,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Edgell  had  just  left,  upon  a  long 
journey.  So  the  stage  had  come  round  to  River  Street,  bring- 
ing Augusta  Hare,  and  her  guitar  case,  and  her  pink  wrapper, 
and  her  romantic  consequence  ;  and  she  had  begged  Miss 
Chism  to  take  her  in  for  a  few  days,  if  she  could  spare  her  a 
room.  She  asked  it  gracefully,  and  as  an  especial  favor  ;  im- 
plying delicately,  at  the  same  time,  compensation.  We  were 
too  well  off  for  that ;  we  would  not  think  of  it,  of  course  ;  Miss 
Hare  was  made  welcome  as  a  guest.  And  this  was  a  great 
and  wonderful  event  to  me. 

The  worst  of  it  was,  that  the  politer  Aunt  Ildy  was  to  Au- 
gusta Hare,  the  harder  she  was  to  me.  I  always  got  on  better 
with  Miss  Chism  when  I  was  quite  alone  with  her  ;  my  familiar 
crimes  were  not  brought  in  such  black  contrast  with  the  veiled 
infirmities  and  presumed  excellences  of  strangerhood.  The 
gracious  confidences  of  Aunt  Ildy  with  our  guest  were  times 
of  exclusion  for  me  ;  not  literal  exclusion,  but  that  worse  inte- 
rior consciousness  of  being  thrust  aside,  and  as  it  were  con- 
temned. I  was  even  under  a  curious  impression,  from  my 
aunt's  manner,  of  its  being  a  shortcoming  in  me  that  I  had  not 
been,  somehow,  nearly  burnt  up,  or  otherwise  distinguished  ; 
that  if  I  had  but  been,  I  might  take  a  quite  different  stand 


100  HITHERTO: 

with  her.     I  was  a  commonplace  child  only,  and  a  trial ;  the 
interesting  and  the  effective  were  not  for  me. 

I  knew  this  well  enough;  but  how  was  I  to  help  it? 
She  would  not  let  me  go  to  a  convent,  —  not  even  to  a 
boarding-school.  Of  course,  Aunt  Ildy  had  really  no  such 
actual  undervaluing  of  me  in  her  mind ;  it  was  only  a  pe- 
culiarity of  hers  that  she  could  not  be  very  gracious  in 
more  than  one  direction  at  once ;  the  effect,  however,  was 
the  same  with  me.  I  had  all  manner  of  fancies  of  what 
might  happen :  I  might  break  an  arm  or  a  leg  some  day, 
and  be  brought  home,  —  I  had  given  up  my  childish  no- 
tion of  the  glory  of  fainting  away.  I  might  secretly  com- 
pose some  verses,  and  get  them  printed  in  a  paper,  and 
become  famous.  I  might,  one  of  these  days,  have  a  lover,  — 
though  where  he  was  to  come  from,  or  how  come  after  me 
there,  with  the  Chism  battery  in  the  way,  was  hard  to  guess, 
—  and  get  married.  The  burning  ambition  of  my  soul  was  to 
make  myself,  some  day,  of  consequence  with  Miss  Chism.  I 
was  not  so  unlike  all  the  rest  of  the  world  in  this.  Miss 
Chism,  like  Mrs.  Grundy,  was  a  representative  woman  ;  every- 
body who  has  a  goading  ambition  has  knowledge  in  one  guise 
or  another,  of  a  cold,  exasperating  unrecognition  which  it 
would  be  worth  while  to  die  and  conquer. 

Miss  Hare  had  numerous  calls  of  inquiry,  and  abundant 
invitations  from  the  very  first.  The  Copes'  carriage  waited 
at  the  door  for  nearly  an  hour,  while  the  young  ladies  were 
hearing  the  whole  story  and  trying  to  persuade  Augusta  to 
go  home  with  them.  But  she  put  them  off.  By  and  by,  per- 
haps, if  they  could  have  her ;  but  Miss  Chism  had  been  very 
kind,  and  she  could  not  run  right  awa}'.  I  think  this  was 
truly  a  reason  with  her,  and  that  she  was  not  ungrateful ;  also 
I  think  she  was  fond  of  me  ;  but  it  was  true,  as  well,  that  her 
plain  sewing  and  dress-making  were  yet  to  be  completed,  and 
she  would  rather  have  an  adequate  Avardrobe  before  visiting  at 
South  Side. 

She  took  me  with  her  one  afternoon  when  she  walked  over 
and  called  at  the  Copes'.  I  felt  very  nicely  dressed  that  day, 
I  remember.  I  had  a  new  blue  muslin,  and  Aunt  Ildy  al- 
lowed me  to  put  it  on.  Indeed,  Augusta  Hare  took  friendly 


A    STORY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  101 

little  liberties  in  her  easy,  pleasant  way,  assuming  it  for 
granted  that  I  could  wear  what  I  chose,  and  suggesting  this 
or  that,  sometimes,  in  Aunt  Ildy's  presence.  I  had  the  bene- 
fit of  it ;  but  it  gave  me  the  old  feeling  of  a  sort  of  duplicity 
on  my  part ;  and,  sometimes,  I  objected  against  my  own  secret 
wish,  because  I  had  an  instinct  of  Miss  Chism's  secret  disrel- 
ish. Then,  I  knew  I  was  double  ;  yet  it  was  only  a  crooked 
conscientiousness. 

I  had  on  my  blue  muslin,  and  my  straw  bonnet,  that  had 
been  new  last  fall,  trimmed  with  white  ribbon  ;  and  Augusta 
Hare  had  given  me  a  pretty  French  collar  with  a  lace  edge, 
and  a  blue  bow. 

It  was  almost  tea-time  for  us  ;  but  the  Copes  had  only  just 
got  through  dinner.  "  The  ladies  will  b§  in  from  the  dining- 
room  directly,"  the  servant  said  who  showed  us  into  the  pleas- 
ant, cool  library,  with  its  summer  matting  on  the  floor,  and  its 
furniture  and  hangings  of  heavy  green  damask.  Great  cases 
of  books  reached  from  the  floor  to  the  ceiling,  and  from  side 
to  side ;  between  the  shelves  hung  fringed  green  velvet ;  sil- 
ver branches  for  candles  were  fastened  beside  the  frames.  I 
supposed,  in  my  simplicity,  that  these  walls  of  literature  repre- 
sented the  familiar  reading  of  the  family,  that  every  one  of 
them  knew  it  all ;  I  was  quite  oppressed  with  the  air  of  ele- 
gance and  learning. 

I  do  not  think  that  I  was  outwardly  awkward ;  my  quick 
feeling  of  grace  and  beauty  gave  me  immunity  from  this  ;  but 
I  braced  my  feet  nervously  against  the  floor,  and  did  not  know 
it  till  my  toes  began  to  ache ;  and  I  could  not  think  of  a 
word  to  say  beyond  mere  replies,  when  the  girls  came  in  and 
tried  to  be  sociable  with  me. 

Mrs.  Cope  gave  me  a  feeling  of  comfort  the  minute  she  ap- 
peared. She  was  such  a  simple,  sweet,  motherly  lady  ;  with 
the  old-time  dignity  upon  her  that  was  homely  also.  She  had 
on  a  large  white  muslin  apron  over  her  silk  dress,  and  her 
basket  of  white  sewing  stood  in  a  deep  window-seat,  just  as 
she  had  left  it  to  go  into  dinner.  She  made  me  think  at  once, 
and  did  always  after,  of  Mrs.  Selby  in  the  Cedar  Parlor,  in 
"  Sir  Charles  Grandison." 

She  sat  down  by  me,  and  showed  me  some  beautiful  pictures 


102  HITHERTO : 

of  English  scenery,  and  stately  interiors  of  old  hills  and  cas- 
tles. Mr.  Cope  had  been  a  great  deal  abroad.  She  was  ex- 
plaining these  when  Allard  Cope  came  in.  He  was  my  danc- 
ing-school partner  of  two  }rears  ago.  He  was  a  handsome  boy, 
with  the  grace  of  high  breeding,  and  the  free  courtesy  that 
only  comes  of  having  received  as  well  as  given  it,  all  one's  life. 
At  this  time  he  was  about  sixteen. 

His  sisters  introduced  him  to  Miss  Hare,  to  whom  he  bowed, 
and  then  came  and  sat  down  by  his  mother  and  me.  We  fin- 
ished looking  over  the  portfolio  we  had  begun,  and  then  Mrs. 
Cope  asked  Allard  to  fetch  another,  which  had  views  of  Paris. 
As  he  came  back  with  it,  a  carriage  was  driven  to  the  door, 
from  which  other  visitors  alighted,  and  were  shown  in.  Mrs. 
Cope  moved  to  receive  them,  and  Allard  and  I  drew  back  into 
a  corner,  where  he  remained  with  me,  turning  over  the  engrav- 
ings and  talking  about  them. 

It  was  a  glimpse  into  such  a  rich  and  beautiful  life !  So 
rich  and  beautiful  that  it  made  me  afraid,  but  for  Allard's 
kindness  and 'Mrs.  Cope's  simpleness.  I  thought  that  with 
them  I  should  not  have  been  afraid,  if  it  had  been  even  ten  • 
times  more  stately  and  splendid.  I  thought  I  could  even  get 
used  to  it  all  in  a  short  time,  and  accept  it  as  quietly  as  they 
did. 

We  all  went  down  into  the  garden  presently.  Mrs.  Cope 
had  some  new  French  roses  which  she  wished  to  show  to  her 
friends.  She  went  and  put  on  a  white  muslin  sun-bonnet,  and 
brought  a  pair  of  garden  scissors,  and  then  led  the  way  down 
the  broad,  shallow  steps  which  descended  from  a  flagged  ter- 
race, at  the  back  of  the  house,  to  the  smooth  green  turf-walks 
and  exquisitely  kept  flower-beds  of  the  pleasure-ground. 

Allard  still  stayed  with  me ;  and  while  his  mother,  chatting 
gracefully,  cut  here  and  there  choice  blossoms,  and  gathered 
them  into  a  great  nosegay  for  the  ladies  with  her,  he  pulled 
roses  and  sweet-verbena  sprigs  and  delicious  pinks  and  white 
lilies  for  me. 

I  was  so  glad  that  I  had  on  my  blue  muslin,  and  that  my 
gloves  and  shoes  were  quite  new.  I  felt  a  warm  -color  spread- 
ing in  my  cheeks,  and  that  I  looked  up  brightly  at  him  in 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  103 

answer  to  the  bright,  kind  looks  he  gave  me.     I  walked  in  a 
sort  of  fairy  land. 

Coming  up  again,  after  we  had  fed  the  gold-fish  in  a  clear 
pond  at  the  garden-foot,  we  got  grouped  differently.  Augusta 
Hare  and  Allard  walked  together,  and  the  Miss  Copes  took 
me  with  them.  I  had  grown  gay  and  fearless  now  ;  we  talked 
about  the  old  school-times  at  the  academy,  and  of  the  Edgells, 
and  of  when  they  would  leave  school  and  come  home.  The 
Copes  remembered  that  I  was  bright  at  puzzles  and  games 
and  sure  at  hard  lessons.  They  reverted  casually  to  these 
things,  in  a  way  far  more  flattering  than  abrupt  compliment ; 
they  made  me  feel  that  they  held  me  in  some  consideration. 
I  am  sure  there  was  never  a  more  thorougly  polite  family  than 
the  Copes. 

I  dare  say  they  never  thought  of  me  again  till  they  were* 
especially  reminded  ;  but  they  sent  me  home  full  of  delighted 
thoughts  of  them,  and  ecstatic  remembrances  of  the  beautiful 
hour  that  they  had  given  me.  Augusta  Hare  told  me  some- 
thing as  we  walked  down  to  the  bridge,  which  nearly  completed 
my  mental  'oversetting,  and  made  me  feel  a  sudden  electric 
flash  of  pleasure  escape  from  my  eyes,  as  I  had  felt  the  con- 
scious sparkle  of  passion  that  day  with  Aunt  lid}'  at  Hatha- 
way Farm.  Allard  Cope  had  said,  "  What  a  very  pretty  girl" 
I  was ! 

Aunt  Ildy  thought,  the  next  day,  that  it  hadn't  agreed  with 
me  visiting  at  South  Side ;  I  couldn't  seem  to  settle  to  aiv^- 
thing  properly.  It  was  true  that  I  was  more  forgetful,  and 
that  small  home  duties  were  more  irksome  to  me  than  eA*er. 
I  suppose  I  was  really  quite  good  for  nothing,  by  severely 
practical  appraisal,  for  a  day  or  two  ;  but  I  thought  Aunt  Ildy 
might  make  some  allowance  for  the  first  time,  and  what  it 
must  be  to  me.  Experiences  are  possible  to  the  gravest  and 
most  methodical,  which  may  utterly  break  in  upon  their  order, 
and  absorb  their  thoughts  ;  which  may  be  great  enough  in 
their  gladness  or  their  grief  to  sweep  away  from  before  them 
all  ordinary  claim  and  obstacle.  I  have  seen  it  so ;  it  takes 
far  more  to  do  this  as  one  gets  on  in  life ;  but  the  elders 
should  remember  that  everything  is  great  to  the  young  ;  each 


104  HITHERTO : 

pleasant  novelty  is  an  overwhelming  excitement ;  all  disap- 
pointment is  tremendous  loss ;  every  new  look  at  life  is  an 
opening  into  the  limitless  possible  and  to  come  ;  they  should 
allow  place  for  what  Aunt  Ildy  called  "  scatter-wittedness  ;  " 
it  will  take  place  now  and  then  in  the  programme,  where  there 
are  wits  to  scatter ;  beginning  as  they  do  upon  a  world  so  full 
of  dispersed  demand  and  attraction. 

I  sobered  down  as  fast  as  I  could ;  I  hid  away  thoughts 
and  dreams  to  be  called  up  and  fully  indulged  at  rare 
moments ;  I  confined  my  talk  with  Aunt  Ildy,  and  in  her 
presence,  to  the  most  staid  and  useful  matters ;  to  Lucretia, 
in  her  own  room,  I  told  over  and  over  again  the  story  of  that 
lovely  afternoon. 

All  through  this  fifteenth  summer  of  my  life,  —  I  was  four- 
teen in  June,  —  I  seemed  to  be  looking  one  way  and  the 
other,  —  touching  alternately,  and  sharing  with,  two  dis- 
tinct kinds  of  living.  There  was  a  charm  in  each.  They 
were  separate  from  each  other ;  at  least,  they  rarely  met  in 
any  conscious  sympathy ;  they  were  wholly  unlike  and 
irreconcilable  in  practice ;  yet  I,  from  a  middle  -point,  could 
turn  easily  and  happily  to  either.  There  are  almost  indis- 
tinguishable gradations  in  our  New  England  life  and  society ; 
especially  in  country  towns.  It  was  perfectly  natural  for  me 
to  associate  freely  with  the  Edgells ;  it  was  as  natural  for 
them  to  be  noticed  by  the  Copes  ;  it  was  not  an  overstrained 
condescension  now  and  then  for  the  Copes  to  be  kind  to  me. 
It  was  as  pleasant  and  as  natural,  on  the  other  hand,  for  me 
to  go  to  the  Hathaways,  and  to  be  happy  at  the  Farm. 
Indeed,  though  neither  of  them  probably  dreamed  of  it,  I, 
having  experience  of  the  goodness  and  lovableness  of  both, 
found  Mrs.  Cope  and  Mrs.  Hathaway  by  no  means  unlike. 
Sirnpleness  and  perfect  breeding  in  the  one  were  akin  to, 
and  remindful  of,  plain  dignity  and  sweet  whole-heartedness 
in  the  other.  I  could  imagine  them  almost  easily  changing 
places,  if  circumstance  should  work  so. 

My  position  was  the  middle  and  prosaic,  the  negative  one  ; 
the  wishful  and  the  restless  one,  being  able  to  look  so,  each 
way,  into  the  others'. 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  105 

Just  before  the  Edgells  returned  home,  Augusta  Hare  came 
in  one  morning  from  the  Copes',  where  she  was  now  staying, 
being  set  down  at  our  door  by  the  young  ladies,  who  had 
driven  on  to  attend  to  business  in  the  town.  She  called  to 
ask  Aunt  Ildy  if  I  might  come  over  to  South  Side  and  take 
tea  that  afternoon. 

"We  were  in  the  sitting-room,  and  I  was  doing  up  ruffles  at 
the  large  table  where  I  had  my  ruffling-iron.  It  wanted  a 
fresh  heater  at  that  moment,  and  I  quietly  (drew  out  the  cold 
one  and  went  into  the  kitchen  to  exchange  it.  My  heart  was 
going  like  a  little  trip-hammer,  but  I  did  not  move  so  much 'as 
an  eyelid.  I  knew  my  sole  chance  depended  on  my  not  get- 
ting excited,  or  pleading  too  impetuously.  It  was  safer  to 
leave  the  pleading  to  Miss  Hare. 

It  was  a  good  stroke  my  leaving  the  room.  I  was  really 
calmer  when  I  came  back  ;  and  Aunt  Ildy  had  not  committed 
herself  by  an  immediate  refusal  in  my  hearing,  which  could 
not  have  been  receded  from.  She  had  probably  half  refused 
at  first ;  when  I  came  in  Augusta  was  sayiug  in  her  most  win- 
ning way :  — 

"  You'll  think  of  it,  I'm  sure,  Miss  Chism ;  we  shall  all 
hope  to  see  her  ;  but  you  need  not  trouble  to  send  word,  3-011 
know-  If  she  comes,  she  can  be  there  by  four.  And  Mrs. 
Cope  sent  her  love,  and  asked  me  to  beg  of  you,  if  you  would 
be  so  kind,  to  let  her  have  your  receipt  for  white  currant  wine 
that  I  told  her  of.  Anstiss  can  bring  it ;  or  if  anything  does 
prevent^  I'll  call  again  for  it." 

The  carriage  was  heard  in  the  street  below,  and  Augusta 
rose. 

"  See  about  it,  Aunt  Ildy,  won't  you?  "  she  repeated,  and 
was  gone. 

She  had  wonderful  tact.  She  might  have  known  Aunt  lid}' 
all  her  life,  and  not  done  better.  If  she  had  pressed  for  an 
immediate  answer,  it  would  very  likely  have  been  "  No." 
That  would  have  been  on  the  safe  side.  But  she  showed  a 
sweet  confidingness,  gave  plenty  of  time  for  thinking  it  over, 
and  left  her  desire  at  Miss  Chism's  discretion. 

"  Have  you  finished  marking  those  new  pillow-cases  ?  "  asked 


106  HITHERTO: 

Aunt  Ildy  of  me.  It  was  Saturday,  and  they  were  to  be  put 
in  the  wash  on  Monday. 

"All  but  four,  auntie,"  I  replied.  "I  can  do  those  after 
dinner."  And  I  went  on  fluting  my  ruffle. 

"  Can  I  go,  Aunt  Ildy  ?  "  I  asked  a  few  minutes  later  when 
I  had  finished,  and  was  about  to  carry  away  the  things,  the 
topmost  of  which  were  two  caps  of  her  own,  exquisitely 
white  and  light  with  their  double  bordering  of  cambric  and 
lace  laid  in  the  finest  and  most  regular  groovings. 

"  I  don't  know  ;  I'll  see,"  replied  Miss  Chisrn. 

I  considered  that  as  good  as  settled,  after  the  old  under- 
standing, especially  as  I  saw  her  go  to  the  old-fashioned  sec- 
retary presently,  take  down  her  manuscript  receipt-book,  and 
try  a  pen. 

I  did  not  wait  to  watch  her,  but  made  haste  upstairs. 
Then  on  the  very  tips  of  my  toes,  right  over  her  head,  but  so 
lightly  that  not  an  old  board  creaked  in  the  floor,  I  executed 
an  original  inspired  waltz,  ending  with  a  flourish  that  I  had 
never  heard  of  by  name,  but  which  was  legitimate  art,  —  a 
real,  perfect  pirouette.  Dancing  is  an  utterance.  I  invented, 
out  of  my  own  gladness,  one  of  its  established  parts  of 
speech. 

I  carried  my  blue  muslin  into  the  kitchen  and  ironed  it  out. 
I  crimped  my  prettiest  bits  of  lace,  and  basted  them  into  the 
neck  and  sleeves.  I  laid  out  my  nicest  white  petticoat,  with 
little  tucks  and  points  round  the  bottom  ;  —  a  work  of  long 
toil  and  many  sorrows  it  had  been  to  me,  but  I  was  very  glad 
-to  have  it  now ;  in  those  days,  before  sewing  machines  and 
the  multiplied  extravagances  of  needlework,  most  young 
ladies  made  for  themselves  whatever  elegancies  of  the  kind 
they  had,  and  it  was  a  shame  at  fifteen  not  to  have  made 
something ;  —  I  assured  m}*self  that  my  best  open-worked 
thread  stockings,  with  the  silk  clocks,  were  in  fresh  readiness 
and  order,  and  I  gave  a  look  to  the  condition  of  my -large 
starched  under-sleeves  of  corded  cambric,  that  were  to  hold 
out  in  balloon  shape  the  full  round  over-sleeves  of  my  dress, 
with  their  pointed,  falling  capes,  trimmed  with  little  ruffles 
of  their  own  material.  The  crimpings  of  thread  lace  finished 


A   STORT  OF   YESTERDAYS.  107 

delicately  the  close  bands  into  which  they  were  gathered 
about  the  arm.  I  had  high  morocco  shoes  of  what  we  called 
tea-color,  —  pale,  with  plenty  of  cream  in  it,  —  laced  up  on 
the  instep.  All  these  things  I  put  ready,  and  then  went  down 
and  ate  my  dinner  without  the  least  bit  of  appetite,  but  with 
resolute  show  of  common  sense. 

'/  Shall  I  get  ready,  aunt  ?  "  I  asked,  when  I  had  helped  her 
put  away  the  glass  and  silver. 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

She  did  not  speak  ungraciously.  She  was  never  outwardly 
affectionate  to  any  one.  -With  all  her  hardness  of  discipline, 
and  her  taking  me  at  my  worst  by  way  of  fiualty  making  the 
best  of  me,  she  had,  I  do  not  doubt,  a  stern  regard  for  me  at 
the  bottom  of  her  heart ;  but  if  she  had  said  "  Yes,  dear,"  1 
should  have  thought  she  was  gone  mad  or  going  to  die ;  or 
that  the  millennium  had  come,  and  had  begun  with  her. 

I  did  look  pretty  when  I  had  finished.  My  hair  was  getting 
a  brighter,  burnished  tint  upon  the  softness  of  the  childish 
light-brown,  and  my  eyes  had  the  clear,  intense  shade  which 
blue  eyes  only  have  in  youth  and  health.  I  smiled  at  myself 
in  the  glass,  remembering  Allard  Cope's  compliment,  and 
I  caught  sight  of  small,  even,  white  teeth  between  lips  that 
were  far  prettier  when  smiling.  I  put  a  blue  ribbon  round 
my  head,  and  fastened  it  in  a  bow  over  my  left  ear,  letting 
the  ends  float  down  behind.  I  tucked  them  up,  though,  care- 
fully, into  the  crown  of  my  bonnet,  as  I  tied  that  on.  I  but- 
toned on  my  long  sleeves  for  the  street,  and  put  on  my 
gloves.  I  Avas  all  ready  then,  and  I  went  downstairs. 

"  I  don't  think  it  will  be  best  for  you  to  stay  to  tea,  Ans- 
tiss,"  Aunt  Ildy  said,  as  if  she  were  not  crushing  me  down 
with  an  avalanche  of  cruel  disappointment.  Perhaps  she 
really  did  not  dream  that  she  was. 

"  O  Aunt  Ildy ! "  I  cried,  in  a  pain  of  involuntary  resist- 
ance and  reproach. 

"  Don't  get  excited  now,"  said  Aunt  Ildy.  "  You  can  go  up 
and  call,  and  carry  the  receipt.  You  can  stay  an  hour,  if 
you  want  to.  But  I  don't  think  it's  best  for  you  to  stay  to 
tea." 


108  .  HITHERTO  : 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  so  before  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  tell  you  anything  about.it.  I've  been  thinking  it 
over.  There's  nobody  to  go  after  you  in  the  evening,  and  I 
don't  want  to  be  under  obligation  to  them  for  seeing  you 
back.  We  can't  invite  the  Copes  to  tea.  You  must  make  up 
your  mind  that  I  know  best." 

The  tears  were  in  my  eyes  and  voice.  There  was  a  hot 
anger  on  my  cheeks.  I  felt  I  had  been  ill-treated,  yet  I  could 
find  nothing  to  gainsay. 

"  I  can't  go,  just  to  tell  them  I  can't  come,"  I  said,  despair- 
ingly, struggling  against  the  tears  and  the  temper.  "  They'll 
insist  on  my  staying.  They'll  say  they  can  send  me  home. 
I  can't  tell  them  you  won't  be  under  obligation." 

"You  can  say  what  I  tell  you,  —  that  it  isn't  convenient. 
If  you  can't  do  that,  you'd  better  not  go.  You  are  not  to 
stay  to  tea.  That  is  all."  And  she  walked  away,  and  left 
me  standing  there. 

When  she  was  quite  out  of  hearing,  I  stamped  my  foot 
down  just  once  upon  the  floor.  I  think  I  should  almost  have 
died,  if  I  had  not  done  that.  Then  I  ran  downstairs,  and  out 
at  the  front  door,  and  walked  off,  down  Cross  Street,  opposite, 
fast  towards  the  bridge. 

I  walked  so  fast,  and  my  feelings  were  in  such  a  whirl,  that 
I  got  to  the  Copes'  front  door  before  I  had  begun  to  make  up 
my  mind  what  to  say.  They  were  all  out  on  the  back  terrace, 
and  the  maid  who  met  me  recognized  me,  and  showed  me  at 
once  through  the  house  to  the  garden  entrance. 

Then  I  had  it  all  to  do  in  a  minute,  in  the  little  bustle  of 
greeting  and  welcome.  I  had  to  hold  on  to  my  bonnet-strings, 
when  Laura  Cope  would  have  untied  them  ;  to  shrink  away 
from  Augusta  Hare  who  would  have  taken  my  muslin  cape, 
and  to  stammer  out  confusedly,  transposing  and  mixing  up 
my  meanings :  — 

"No — I  can't — I  only  came — I  didn't  come  —  to  stop 
but  —  a  great  while  !  " 

They  all  smiled.  They  could  not  have  helped  it  if  the}7  had 
been  duchesses  ;  only  their  perfect  good-breeding  kept  them, 
I  am  sure,  from  shrieks.  I  laughed  myself,  in  the  midst  of  a 


A    STOKY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  109 

flame  of  mortification  and  a  springing  of  tears.  If  I  had 
known  what  I  was  in  danger  of,  it  would  have  been  all  over 
with  me.  I  was  as  near  hysterics  as  a  simple  child  could  be. 

"  Never  mind,"  Mrs.  Cope  said,  kindly.  "  Sit  here  in  the 
shade  by  me.  You  are  so  warm  with  your  walk.  We'll  talk 
about  the  bonnet  presently." 

The  sweet  summer  wind  came  through  great  linden-trees 
and  over  fresh-smelling  grass  and  masses  of  flowers.  The 
calm,  restful  hills  lay  green  and  round  against  the  blue 
horizon,  and  little  white  clouds  went  floating  by,  far  overhead. 
There  was  a  glimpse  of  the  river-dazzle  out  between  the  open 
fields,  where  it  made  its  sharp  western  bend  around  the  town. 
It  is  a  great  thing  to  look  aipay.  Between  brick  walls,  sor- 
rows pin  one  clown,  and  grind  and  gnaw  one's  life.  It  is  so 
natural,  when  things  go  wrong  in-doors,  to  sit  and  look  out  of 
a  window,  —  if  the  window  looks  anywhere.  You  think  that 
you  are  sulky  or  miserable,  —  perhaps  you  mean  to  be,  at 
first ;  but  presently  you  have  gotten  all  over  it.  You  have 
gone  out  from  yourself,  away  off  among  tree-branches  and 
cloud-islands,  carrying  your  trouble  with  you,  and  there  you 
give  it  the  slip,  and  leave  it  to  melt  away. 

I  felt  calm  and  bright  again  in  five  minutes,  sitting  there 
by  Mrs.  Cope,  listening  to  her  friendly  words  contrived  to  call 
for  little  answer,  and  linking  their  pleasantness  dreamily  with 
every  pleasant  color  and  motion  and  form  upon  which  my 
vision  lingered. 

"  And  now  about  the  bonnet,"  she  began  again,  just  at  a 
nice  moment,  when  nobody  was  particularly  looking.  "  Can't 
we  have  it  off  ?  or  what  is  the  difficulty?  " 

I  began  at  the  right  end  now.  "  I  might  take  it  off,  I  sup- 
pose ;  but  I  wanted  to  tell  you  first,  Aunt  II dy  sent  her  com- 
pliments, and  said  I  might  stay  for  an  hour  or  so,  but  that  it 
wouldn't  be  convenient  to  spare  me  till  after  tea." 

"Perhaps  it  was  the  sending  for  you?  I  thought  of  that, 
and  meant  to  manage  it.  It  ought  to  have  been  mentioned. 
I  can  send  down  a  message  now  to  Miss  Chism,  and  tell  her 
we'll  take  care  of  you,  if  she  Will  allow  you  to  stay.  We  shall 


110  HITHERTO: 

.drive  out  after  tea,  and  we  can  bring  you  round  on  our  way 
home." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Cope;  but,  indeed  —  please  not! 
I'm  sure  Aunt  Ildy  meant  me  to  come  home." 

"  Then  we  won't  say  another  word,"  said  Mrs.  Cope,  with 
the  truest  kindness ;  "  but  make  the  most  of  our  hour,  and 
manage  better  next  time." 

There  was  a  whole  world  of  consolation  for  me  in  those  last 
two  words. 

They  got  it  all  into  that  hour,  I  think.  They  had  the 
bagatelle  board  brought  out  on  the  terrace,  —  croquet  was  a 
thing  to  come  in  the  after  years, —  and  we  played  the  gaine 
with  the  bridge,  as  easiest  for  a  beginner.  Allard  and  his 
mother  and  I  sided  together  against  the  Miss  Copes  and 
Augusta.  We  played  nine  rounds,  and  came  out  a  hundred 
and  fifty  ahead.  Allard  said  I  made  wonderful  strokes.  I 
thought  I  had  wonderful  luck,  and  was  delighted  not  to  spoil 
their  side  of  the  game. 

Then  they  would  have  raspberries  and  cream,  and  delicious 
little  almond  cakes  for  me ;  the  best  part  of  the  tea  that  I 
could  not  stay  for  ;  and  then  Allard  gathered  me  some  flowers, 
and  when  I  put  on  my  gloves  and  bade  good-by,  he  said  it  was 
time  for  the  mail,  and  he  would  walk  down  with  me  and  bring 
home  his  mother's  letters. 

It  was  their  beautiful  way  of  entertaining,  I  know ;  every- 
body found  it  delightful  at  the  Copes  ;  and  they  were  kindly 
sorry  for  my  embarrassment  and  disappointment,  and  so 
turned  it  all  into  the  greater  if  the  shorter  pleasure  ;  some- 
body else  came  in,  very  likely,  as  soon  as  I  had  gone,  and  was 
just  as  solicitously  attended  to  ;  but  it  made  me  feel  as  noth- 
ing but  Richard  Hathaway's  and  his  mother's  kindness  had 
ever  made  me  feel  before ;  as  if  people  cared  for  me  to  be 
happy ;  and  I  might,  if  but  for  a  little  while,  be  made  the 
principal  thing.  I  thought  what  it  must  be  to  have  a  life  full 
of  such  care,  and  how  some  people  had  it,  and  some  not. 
And  then  there  was  the  walk  down  hill  and  up  into  the  town 
with  Allard. 

I  felt  a  little  pleasant  tingle  of  pride,  when  we  met  some 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  Ill 

of  the  school-girls  on  the  bridge,  and  he  lifted  his  cap  because 
I  bowed  to  them.  I  could  tell  by  the  sound  of  their  steps 
that  they  turned  to  look  after  they  had  passed  us.  It  was  a 
great  thing  to  come  upon  Aunt  Ildy  at  the  street  door,  just 
going  in  from  an  errand,  and  to  have  her  see  him  shake  hands 
with  me,  and  give  me  the  flowers,  which  he  had  carried  all  the 
way,  and  hear  him  say  he  was  sorry  I  could  not  have  made  a 
longer  visit.  I  think  I  took  on  a  kind  of  self-possession  and 
elegance  myself,  being  treated  so ;  and  that  my  parting  bow 
and  thanks  had  a  South  Side  air  that  Aunt  Ildy's  lacked. 

I  took  off  my  blue  muslin,  and  put  on  my  brown  calico,  and 
got  my  stocking  basket,  and  sat  down  till  tea  was  ready.  I 
had  been  so  happy  that  it  was  easy  to  be  very  good.  I  forgot 
all  that  had  seemed  hard  and  cruel,  and  looked  upon  it  quite 
in  a  new  light.  I  even  tried  to  get  some  sympathy  from  Aunt 
Ildy  in  a  pleasure  that  would  not  altogether  be  laid  aside  in 
silence.  Or,  rather,  my  pleasure  so  overflowed,  like  the  little 
brook  into  which  a  generous  rain  has  poured,  that  it  made  a 
glad  little  ripple  over  the  very  rock  that  hemmed  it  in. 

"  I  had  a  beautiful  time,"  I  said.  "  Mrs.  Cope  was  so  good  ! 
And  I  think  it  was  very  nice  of  Allard  to  come  home  with  me." 

"  The  Copes  are  very  polite,"  replied  the  rock ;  "  and  your 
Uncle  Royle  has  always  been  thought  a  good  deal  of.  Mr. 
Cope  sits  and  talks  with  him  in  his  little  room  about  their 
books  and  politics.  But  I  guess  I  wouldn't  call  that  young 
man  by  his  Christian  name,  if  I  were  you." 

How  absurd  I  had  been,  and  how  ashamed  I  was !  Those 
few  words  of  Aunt  Ildy's,  and  the  tone  of  them,  laid  bare, 
and  touched  to  wincing,  possible  and  half-comprehended  things  ; 
that  which  perhaps  was  in  me,  and  perhaps  was  not,  but  of 
which  I  was  certainly  not  conscious  till  her  dry  rebuke  covertly 
accused  me.  Foolishly-raised  conceit,  presumption,  forward- 
ness, and  something  more,  undefined,  —  unwarranted  and 
ridiculous  also,  —  a  claim  of  familiarity,  as  if  Allard  Cope 
were  anything,  especially,  to  me!  "That  young  man!"  I 
did  not  know  that  I  had  thought  of  him  as  a  young  man  be- 
fore ;  he  was  only  one  of  a  delightful  family,  the  nearest  to 
my  own  age,  who  had  shown  me  a  graceful  friendliness.  Then 


112  HITHERTO: 

I  remembered  the  girls  upon  the  bridge  ;  and  I  analyzed  my 
feeling  there ;  I  blushed  as  I  questioned  if  it  had  been  quite 
free  from  silliness,  and  all  the  quick  sensitiveness  of  fifteen 
shamed  me  before  my  own  self-judgment,  provoked  to  harsh- 
ness by  Aunt  Ildy's  blunt  reproof. 

In  the  midst  of  it  all,  though,  I  could  not  help  secretly  wish- 
ing that  she  could  have  known  what  he  had  really  said  ;  that 
"  I  was  such  a  pretty  girl !  "  I  made  up  my  mind  distinctly, 
however,  that  I  would  not  call  him  "  Allard  "  any  more  ;  that 
to  Aunt  Ildy  I  would  not  speak  about  the  Copes  at  all. 

They  must  have  talked  it  over  at  South  Side  ;  and  Augusta 
must  have  told  them  something  ;  for  the  next  thing  that  hap- 
pened was  a  regular  coup  d'etat. 

Mr.  Cope  himself  rode  up  to  the  office  door  one  morning, 
and  as  a  boy  brought  out  his  letters,  he  begged  that  Mr. 
Chism  would  come  to  him  a  moment. 

I  was  getting  out  fresh  linen  from  the  chest  of  drawers  in 
the  front  room  above,  and  the  windows  were  up,  and  the  green 
blinds  closed.  I  just  heard  the  sound  of  their  voices,  at  first, 
but  I  caught  distinctly  Mr.  Cope's  last  words. 

"  Mrs.  Cope  has  quite  set  her  heart  upon  it ;  she  has  taken 
a  great  fancy  to  your  little  niece  ;  she  will  call  this  afternoon, 
and  ask  Miss  Chism." 

It  was  not  natural  to  me  to  be  secret  and  politic ;  it  went 
hard ;  if  I  had  had  a  dear  mother,  pleased  with  my  pleasure, 
sure  to  allow  all  that  was  right  and  good  for  me,  I  should  have 
run  to  her  direetly  with  this  wonderful  hint  that  I  had  heard  ; 
and  I  think  she  would  have  helped  me  in  my  hopes  and 
guesses;  but  before  Aunt  Ildy  I  closed  my  mouth,,  and 
waited.  I  changed  the  bureau-covers  and  pillow-cases  as  she 
had  bidden  me ;  I  sat  down  quietly  to  my  sewing ;  by  and  by 
I  laid  the  table  for  dinner,  it  being  baking-day,  and  Lucretia 
busy.  I  was  unusually  silent,  and  I  hardly  dared  let  my  eyes 
meet  Aunt  Ildy's  ;  I  knew  they  would  have  sparkled  if  I  did, 
and  if  I  had  opened  my  lips  I  should  have  sung. 

Uncle  Royle  came  in  rather  early,  and  told  the  whole  before 
me.  He  did  not  know  much  how  things  went  on  upstairs  ;  he 
lived  so  in  the  store  and  office,  and  in  his  little  room  behind. 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  113 

Mrs.  Cope  was  intending  to  call  on  Aunt  Ildy,  and  ask  leave 
for  me  to  come  to  them  next  week,  and  stay  Thursday  and 
Friday.  The  young  ladies  would  have  some  j'ounger  cousins 
to  entertain, —  girls  of  my  own  age,  —  and  would  be  obliged  if  I 
would  come  and  help.  There  was  not  a  large  neighborhood 
then  at  South  Side,  and  there  was  not  swift  communication 
far  and  near,  as  there  is  now.  It  had  been  in  this  way  the 
Copes  had  used  to  come  down  for  the  Edgells. 

" I  suppose  she  can  go,"  said  Uncle  Royle.  "I  told  Mr. 
Cope  so,  and  I  think  she'd  better.  It  is  a  very  particular  at- 
tention. You'd  like  it,  wouldn't  you,  Anstiss  ?  It  will  do  you 
good.  There's  never  any  harm  in  getting  what  one  can  of 
good  society  ;  and  you  don't  have  many  pleasuring^." 

"  I  think  j'ou  are  very  kind,  Uncle  Royle ! "  I  answered, 
letting  my  grateful  pleasure  brim  and  tremble  over  in  eye  and 
voice.  "  May  I,  Aunt  Ildy  ?  " 

I  am  afraid  she  felt  almost  insulted  by  this  form  of  defer- 
ence ;  but  I  could  not  help  it ;  I  must  ask  her ;  it  would  have 
been  worse  if  I  had  not. 

"  It  seems  to  be  all  settled,"  she  replied,  grimly. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Uncle  Royle,  taking  her  innocently  at  her 
word.  "  Since  you  don't  know  of  anything  to  prevent ;  and  I 
supposed  you  couldn't."  Uncle  Royle  did  not  see  much,  to 
be  sure ;  but  he  had  lived  with  Aunt  Ildy  all  his  life,  and 
it  is  possible  that  in  a  simple  way  he  was  now  and  then  in- 
spired. 

"  I  don't  know  what  she's  got  to  wear,"  Aunt  Ildy  remarked. 

"  There's  time  enough,"  said  Uncle  Royle.  "If  she  wants 
a  new  gown,  let  her  have  it.  I'll  tell  you  what,  Annie,  you 
and  I'll  go  shopping  together  this  afternoon,  while  Aunt  Ildy 
talks  it  over  with  Mrs.  Cope." 

It  did  not  occur  to  Uncle  Royle  very  often  to  interest  him- 
self directly  in  the  plans  and  personal  wants  of  people  ;  when 
he  did  begin,  he  seemed  to  wake  up  to  it  as  to  a  pleasure  that 
he  had  been  rather  clever  in  discovering,  and  that  was  of 
easier  attainment  than  he  had  supposed.  He  always  went  on 
from  one  thing  to  more. 

"  Your  Uncle  Royle  says  so  and  so,"  —  "  Your  Uncle  Royle 


114  HITHERTO: 

thinks  best ;"  these  were  often  very  decisive  words  in  Aunt  Ildy's 
mouth  to  me  ;  therefore,  when  he  said  so  and  so  in  my  presence, 
or  thought  best  to  do  anj'thing  thus  out  of  his  own  head,  she 
had  the  consistency  not  to  actively  oppose.  But  I  think  she 
felt  herself  circumvented. 

Uncle  Royle  bought  me  a  green  and  white  narrow-striped 
silk,  and  told  Mr.  Norcross  he  might  put  up  the  "  trimmings  " 
with  it ;  the  construction  of  which  order  was  such  that  besides 
the  cambric  and  linen  and  sewing-silk  and  hooks  and  eyes, 
there  came  home  with  the  parcel  two  yards  of  ribbon  and  a 
yard  and  a  half  of  thread  lace.  The  whole  cost  thirteen  dol- 
lars and  a  half;  it  was  in  the  good  old  times  when  six  }'ards 
made  a  skirt,  and  a  pretty  summer  silk  cost  but  a  dollar  a 
yard.  I  wonder  everybody  did  not  wear  silk  then  ;  that,  how- 
ever, was  reserved  for  the  days  of  seventy-dollar  dresses,  that 
we  have  come  to  now.  Now  it  is  something  worth  while,  and 
everybody  brings  it  to  pass.  Cook-maids,  in  consequence, 
get  their  four  dollars  a  week. 

It  seemed  to  me,  then,  a  grand  outlay ;  I  thought  I  was  pro- 
vided like  a  princess.  Truly  there  was  some  poetry  coming 
for  me  at  last.  It  was  like  Miss  Austen's  heroines  going  to 
London  and  Bath,  to  see  the  rich,  gay  world.  I  was  just 
old  enough  to  fancy  that  I  might  have  fallen  upon  the  title- 
page  of  my  romance.  Two  days  were  an  enormous  time  ! 

Aunt  Ildy  measured  and  pieced  ;  did  her  duty  by  the  silk 
dress  now  that  it  was  bought ;  and  her  duty  was  never  done 
until  a  piecing  was  got  in  somehow. 

I  ran  the  breadths,  and  covered  bits  of  piping-cord  ;  then  I 
was  set  at  turning  some  old  sheets,  to  keep  my  mind  down  to 
usefulness  and  every-day  ;  meanwhile  nry  fancy  was  living  those 
two  glorified  days  at  South  Side,  and  crowding  them  with  all 
possibilities  of  delight  until  they  became  a  golden  age  of  glad- 
ness. Years  lay  between  me,  already,  and  yesterday  morning 
when  the  green  and  white  silk  dress  was  begun.  Kept  down 
to  commonplace?  Every  stitch  in  the  old  sheet  was  a  grapple 
upon  some  fairy  chain  of  imagination  by  which  I  climbed  and 
climbed  out  of  this  every-day  of  mine  into  an  illimitable  para- 
dise. They  were  magic  hours,  and  it  was  the  bean-stalk  of  the 


A    STORY    OF    YESTERDAYS.  115 

story,  —  a  common  work  done  under  a  kitchen  Avindow,  from 
which  something  grew  and  reached  up  until  it  touched  the 
clouds.  Up  and  down  its  flowering  path  I  travelled.  Aunt 
Ildy  looked  after  the  village  dress-maker  and  her  pieces  and 
her  threads  of  sewing-silk  ;  she  thought  me  under  a  wholesome 
domestic  discipline.  Well,  one  half  the  world  doesn't  know 
what  the  other  half  is  about,  even  when  it  has  got  it  under 
eye  and  thumb. 

The  Copes  came  for  me  on  Wednesday,  just  before  tea.  I 
had  on  my  blue  dress  ;  the  new  silk,  and  a  purple-striped  cal- 
ico for  mornings,  were  in  Uncle  Royle's  old-fashioned  black  port* 
manteau,  with  some  clean  collars  and  pocket-handkerchiefs, 
and  my  night-things  ;  and  the  key  was  in  my  pocket.  I  was 
mistress  of  all  this  for  two  days  ;  only  the  invisible  restraint 
of  Aunt  Ildy's  admonitions  and  expectations  went  with  me. 
That  hangs  about  me  to  this  day.  I  feel  the  old  habitual 
twitch  at  my  acquired  conscience,  every  time  I  put  on  a  fresh 
lace  recklessly,  or  wear  my  best  gloves,  because  the  second- 
best  have  a  rip  in  the  finger. 

Can  I  ever  forget  the  exquisite  pleasure  it  was  to  me  when 
they  put  me  in  possession  of  that  room  up  in  the  west  wing, 
over  the  garden?  Only  for  two  nights'  sleeping  and  two  days' 
dressing;  and  it  was  so  much  to  me,  such  a  beginning,  that 
troubled  itself  with  no  end,  and  that  I  must  fain  linger  over 
now,  while  the  story  of  years  in  the  after-life  awaits  to  be 
remembered  !  This  is  the  way,  though,  that  we  do  remember. 
Point  after  point,  as  we  find  out  its  full  meaning,  perhaps,  will 
all  our  life  come  back,  to  us  one  day  in  like  manner,  when 
everything  shall  be  great  and  full,  measured  by  no  moments 
of  time,  or  any  earthly  comparison,  but  only  by  its  relation  to 
what  has  been  in  and  from  ourselves  through  its  experience. 

Place  is  so  much  to  us.  To  me,  at  least,  it  alwajrs  was  : 
from  the  seat  at  school  to  the  home  one  makes  between  four 
walls  somewhere,  long  afterward ;  and  ajl  the  lesser  and  tran- 
sient abidings  that  come  between !  The  corner  in  a  stage- 
coach for  a  day's  ride  over  the  hills,  or  the  better  perch  upon 
the  springing  roof;  the  window  in  a  rail-car;  the  state-room  in 
a  steamer ;  the  nook  in  God's  hottse  that  is  our  own,  and  where 


116  HITHERTO: 

we  can  always  pray  and  listen  best ;  the  earth  under  the  trees 
of  a  cemetery,  or  on  the  sunny  slope  of  a  simple  graveyard, 
where  we  shall  lie  down  at  last !  The  best  promise  for  the 
beyond :  a  "  place"  for  us  there,  also.  t 

All  this  from  the  thought  of  that  pretty  summer  room  into 
which  the  linden-trees  rustled,  and  the  breath  of  the  white 
lilies  came  up  from  below. 

The  four  corners  were  cut  off,  turning  it  into  an  octagon, 
and  making  little  triangular  closets  and  arched  recesses  before 
which  curtains  hung.  In  one  of  these  last  was  the  quaint  little 
'half-circular  toilet,  and  the  tilted  round  mirror  above  it,  the 
draperies  always  looped  back  from  before  them  ;  everything  in 
the  room  was  of  an  antique  grace,  and  made  one  think  of  the 
maidenhood  of  a  past  generation  that  had  dwelt  and  decked 
itself  here,  and  been  beautiful  in  the  old-time  fashion.  In 
another,  stood  the  washing-stand,  a  wonderful  little  airy 
tripod,  running  up  to  hold  a  china  basin  in  a  light,  polished 
rim  of  some  dark,  rich  wood,  while  below,  between  the  sup- 
ports, was  just  a  solid  round  big  enough  for  the  slender  ewer. 
Beside,  a  towel-stand,  tall  and  narrow,  its  three  rods  only  as 
wide  each  as  the  folded  damask  that  hung  therefrom  gleaming 
with  glossy,  delicate  diaper  of  vine  and  clover-leaves.  Above, 
tiny  triangular  shelves,  with  all  the  rest  of  the  service  and 
appliance  needed. 

I  just  stood-still  a  minute  and  clapped  my  hands,  when  I  was 
left  alone.  My  pleasure  was  as  full  as  if  I  had  been  to  call  it  all 
mine  from  that  time  always.  And  why  not  ?  It  has  been  ever 
since.  You  cannot  "  give  and  take  away  again,"  into  and  from 
a  life. 

I  heard  Allard  Cope  go  whistling  down  the  stairs  as  I 
smoothed  my  hair.  I  heard  a  door  open  and  a  gay  young 
voice,  one  of  the  cousins',  call  to  him  and  stop  him.  Then 
there  were  some  little  teasing  words  and  questions,  and  a 
laugh,  about  something  that  had  happened,  or  been  foretold, 
or  promised  and  forgotten,  I  forget  what,  —  only  a  bit  out  of 
the  life  of  a  happy  house  into  which  I  was  coming,  —  and  then 
presently  steps  returned  toward  my  door,  and  Laura  Cope 
came  in  to  take  me  down  tcrtea.  Those  two  minutes,  again, 
were  not  minutes.  In  them  I  entered  into  and  enjoyed  some- 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  117 

thing  that  opened  toward  a  rich  and  endless  knowledge  and 
duration. 

They  introduced  me  to  Grace  and  Sarah  Braithley,  and  gave 
me  a  sea*  between  Augusta  Hare  and  Sarah.  Grandon  Cope 
and  his  father  came  in  from  a  ride  as  we  sat  down  to  our  late, 
twilight  tea.  Grandon  had  a  branch  of  wild  blossoms  for  his 
mother,  that  he  came  up  to  lay  beside  her  plate.  He  leaned 
over  her  close  as  he  did  so,  and  she  looked  up  at  him  with  a 
lovely  light  in  her  eye.  Mrs.  Cope  was  beautiful  with  her  sons.  I 
learned  first  from  her  what  a  full  grace  motherhood  has  ;  how 
a  woman  only  comes  to  her  whole,  rich  fairness  then,  when  the 
years  sit  upon  her  like  a  crown,  and  a  love  devotes  itself  to 
her  that  has  grown  up  out  of  her  own  life  and  stands  beside  it 
now,  no  chance  comer,  but  its  very  own,  its  perfecting  and  re- 
ward. I  think  the  purest  tenderness,  the  most  chivalrous  at- 
tending she  can  ever  have,  comes  to  her  so  ;  and  that  no  trick 
or  grace  of  early  youth,  no  coquettish  queening  of  it  in  girl's 
beauty,  can  compare  with  the  radiance  and  the  winsome  dig- 
nity that  are  upon  her  then. 

The  Copes  were  English  in  their  origin  and  connection. 
Grandon  had  just  come  home  from  Cambridge,  where  he  had 
been  sent  for  his  University  education  ;  the  whole  family  was 
making  much  of  him,  and  the  neighborhood  looked  on  admir- 
ingly. After  this  summer  stay  he  was  going  abroad  again 
with  his  father,  to  visit  the  Continent,  perhaps  to  remain  and 
pursue  some  scientific  taste  he  had  in  Germany.  But  his 
mother  claimed  him  first,  and  he  came  all  across  the  water,  — 
a  wearier  way  than  now,  —  to  bring  her  his  fresh  honors  and 
his  affectionate  duty. 

Grandon  began  again  the  little  bantering  with  Allard,  and 
brought  his  cousins  upon  him  afresh.  There  was  such  a  charm 
to  me  in  this  little  sportive  justle  and  antagonism  between 
people  who  could  afford,  out  of  their  wealth  of  heart-kindliness 
and  true  courtesy,  to  affect  it  for  the  fun  of  the  moment,  in 
which  something  half-serious  was  affectionately  hid  !  To  be 
taken  to  task  with  a  jest  was  such  a  different  thing  from  the 
grinding  earnest  I  was  used  to,  —  the  fault-finding  so  real,  so 
depressing,  and  down-holding !  Allard  maintained  his  own, 


118  HITHERTO: 

and  answered  back  with  an  adroitness  that  turned  the  tables, 
and  brought  the  laugh  —  as  genial  as  before  —  with  him  in- 
stead of  against  him.  Even  his  father  would  let  himself  be 
conquered  by  a  repartee,  such  as  if  I  had  ventured  »pon  with 
Aunt  Ildy  would  have  been  very  nearly  the  end  of  all  things. 
What  was  daring  and  defiant  in  me  was  the  mere  play  and 
grace  of  life  here  among  these  happy  children  whose  life  had 
been  allowed  to  grow.  One  good,  perhaps,  was  meant  by  both 
methods.  It  was  only  the  difference  of  ways.  But  to  me  it 
was  all  the  difference  between  the  branching  growth  kept 
nailed  and  trained  against  a  wall,  and  the  free  tossing  of  green 
boughs  in  a  gay,  sunny  orchard.  "Wall-fruit  may  be  good  ; 
some  natures  might  never  bear,  perhaps,  in  other  fashion.  But 
I  like  the  free  flavor  best. 

It  was  only  the  family  party  to-night;  to-morrow  there 
would  be  company  at  dinner  and  in  the  evening. 

We  all  sat  out  on  the  terrace  in  the  moonlight.  I  got  as 
near  to  Mrs.  Cope  as  I  could.  Sitting  there,  with  the  folds  of 
her  soft  muslin  dress  lying  lightly  over  and  against  mine,  — 
she  wore  the  prettiest  dress  to-night,  figured  with  the  tiniest 
old-fashioned  sprigs  of  pale  pinks,  and  round  the  hem  and  about 
the  wrists  just  a  narrow  bit  of  ruffle  of  the  same  that  looked 
so  delicate  and  ladylike,  so  just  like  her,  and  in  her  belt,  in 
the  sweet,  old,  simple  way,  a  nosegay,  —  I  dreamed  a  sort  of 
dream,  thinking  out  a  picture  of  a  life  such  as  might  have  been 
for  me  if  Mrs.  Cope,  or  anybody  like  her,  had  been  my  mother. 

The  faint  image  I  had  in  my  mind  of  a  mother,  gathered 
vaguely  from  dim  association  with  all  that  had  belonged 
to  my  own,  and  that  was  laid  away  in  the  high  bureau  in  the 
front  room  at  Miss  Chism's,  —  was  of  something  just  so 
nice  and  delicate  and  sweetly  pure,  accompanied  with  some 
faint,  never-absent,  clinging  sense  of  fragrance  about  all  she 
wore  ;  not  just  perfumed,  but  taken  out  of  careful  folds  from 
some  drawer  where  rose-leaves  had  lain,  and  other  sweet- 
smelling  things  had  long  ago  been  dropped  among  laces  and 
linens,  till  all  the  old  wood  was  full  of  a  rare,  gentle  odor  that 
would  never  leave  it  any  more.  And  the  repose  and  sweet- 
ness and  perfumed  grace  of  courtesy  about  Mrs.  Cope  were 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  119 

something  like  these  also,  and  as  if  they  could  fittingly  array 
themselves  in  no  other  sort  of  outward  vesture.  Nothing  new, 
just  bought  at  the  shops,  and  poured  as  a  false,  obtrusive 
anointing,  about  a  common  life  ;  but  an  old  ingrained  sweet- 
ness of  real  roses  that  had  been  gathered  long  ago.  The  very 
word  "  mother,"  learned  among  fair  relics,  and  beside  gentle 
lives  like  this  and  Mrs.  Hathaway's,  sounded  and  savored  of 
such  things  to  me.  If  Miss  Chism  had  been  anybody's 
mother,  —  but  that  could  never  have  been.  Thank  God,  I 
never  saw  anything  of  motherhood  but  the  beauty  of  it !  So  I 
know  it  the  better,  perhaps,  —  as  we  learn  many  things  in  this 
life  that  is  only  a  life  of  types,  —  from  having  missed  it. 

Sarah  Braithley  proposed  some  quiet  games  that  were  new 
things  then  ;  games  of  intellect,  such  as  I  always  liked.  The 
Cope  girls  drew  me  out,  and  the  soft,  shielding  moonlight  and 
their  mother  beside  me  made  me  brave,  and  I  took  my  part 
with  delight.  We  grew  merry  over  them,  and  I  made  quick 
answers,  and  everybody  laughed,  and  I  got  excited,  and  I 
think  I  was  rather  brilliant  for  a  child.  Something,  at  any 
rate,  always  popped  into  my  head  when  my  turn  came,  and  it 
got  so  at  last  that  they  rather  hurried  round  to  me  to  see 
what  I  would  say  ;  and  sometimes  one  of  them,  in  a  puzzle, 
would  make  me  find  a  reason  or  a  word  for  them.  Mr.  Cope 
would  say  "  Bravo ! "  and  they  would  all  give  a  well-bred, 
little,  musical  shout  of  laughter  together  at  some  of  my  sallies. 
Allard  tossed  the  hard  things  toward  me,  and  seemed 
especially  proud  when  I  succeeded.  I  think  Allard  always 
took  to  himself  credit  in  these  days  for  having  found  me  out 
first,  and  behaved  as  if  I  somehow  belonged  to  him  particu- 
larly, by  right  of  discovery.  We  were  very  jolly  friends,  and 
I  was  not  a  bit  afraid  of  him  ;  but  I  fairly  trembled  with  a  sort 
of  scared  triumph  when  Mr.  Grandon  Cope,  who  was  so  old 
and  such  a  scholar,  and  of  such  consequence,  joined  in  the 
glee  and  applause,  and  gave  me  special  questions  to  try  me. 
The  idea  of  my  surprising  or  amusing  him !  It  seemed 
stranger  to  do  this  with  him  than  with  his  father.  Old  gen- 
tlemen, somehow,  are  always  kind  and  easily  pleased  ;  or  else 
they  are  people  just  to  be  let  alone,  and  there  is  the  end  of  it. 


120  HITHERTO: 

I  could  be  a  little  saucy,  even,  with  Mr.  Cope,  for  he  patted 
me  on  the  shoulder,  and  I  knew  I  was  only  a  little  child  to 
him.  But  Grandon  treated  me  just  as  he  did  Augusta 
Hare,  and  it  was  something  real  and  startling  when  he  turned 
over  his  part  in  the  game  to  me,  and  watched  in  earaest  to  see 
what  I  would  make  of  it.  It  was  only  out  of  curiosity  and 
for  greater  sport,  of  course  ;  he  could  have  answered  all  the 
questions  if  he  had  tried ;  but  he  gave  up  all  effort  deliber- 
ately at  last,  and  came  round  behind  his  mother  and  me,  and 
handed  them  regularly,  as  it  were,  over  my  shoulder,  with, 
"Now?"  "  Miss  Anstiss,  why  is  it?"  or,  "Why  do  I?  I'm 
sure  I  don't  know." 

He  had  a  "  thought "  himself,  at  last,  in  "  "What  is  my 
Thought  like  ? "  And  I  told  him  it  was  like  the  toothache. 
At  which,  before  his  thought  was  declared,  he  laughed  im- 
moderately. 

"  I'm  afraid  it  is  —  to  you,"  he  said  ;  "  but  you'll  have  to 
tell  me  why.  I  thought  of  my  stupidity.  Now  ?  " 

"  Because,"  I  answered,  in  a  very  serious,  tired  way,  "  what 
can't  be  cured  must  be  endured." 

I  had  actually  been  saucy  with  him  !  I  felt  myself  burn  all 
over,  as  soon  as  I  had  said  it,  and  a  sort  of  horrible  vision  of 
Aunt  Ildy  and  her  day-of-judgment  face  rushed  up  before 
me. 

"  I  couldn't  help  it,"  I  stammered  out.  "  It  was  all  the 
answer  there  was." 

"Of  course  it  was!"  he  cried,  and  the  second  shout  of 
laughter  was  more  explosive  than  the  first.  Between  the  two 
I  seemed  to  hear  my  little,  blundering  excuse  dropping  like 
an  absurd  echo.  I  could  not  play  any  more.  Myself, 
measured  by  Aunt  Ildy's  estimation,  stood,  like  a  mean  re- 
ality to  shame  my  counterfeit,  in  the  way  of  my  new  self-pos- 
session and  brilliancy.  As  the  Copes  treated  me,  I  had  been 
raised  to  a  higher  and  more  happily  assured  sort  of  self;  or, 
rather,  I  had  not  thought  about  myself,  exactly,  at  all.  In 
bright,  pleasant  exercise,  when  every  muscle  moves  with  a 
gladness,  one  does  not  think  about  the  body.  The  physical 
life  goes  into  the  thing  one  is  doing.  Mental  life  works  so 


A    STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  121 

too,  sometimes.  I  think  I  bad  often  been  least  conscious  of 
•myself  when,  as  I  fancied  afterward,  my  secondary  con- 
science coming  up,  I  hud  been  most  forward. 

They  saw  that  I  had  frightened  myself;  and  perhaps  they 
thought  they  had  not  been  quite  fair  ;  I  know  they  had  really 
liked  it,  and  had  not  been  making  fun  of  me,  though  I  knew 
with  the  terrible  insight  that  always  haunted  me  and  super- 
induced that  state  of  conscience,  that  it  was  what  Miss  Chism 
would  say  ;  but  they  understood  at  once  now  ;  and  they  let  the 
game  drop,  in  a  sort  of  glory  to  me,  too,  as  if  there  was  noth- 
ing more  to  be  said  after  that ;  only  Mr.  Cope  would  now  and 
then  break  out  into  a  little  after-laugh  of  his  own,  as  if  he 
could  not  quite  get  over  it.  Grandon  and  Mrs.  Cope  talked 
on  with  me  a  good  while  about  a  good  many  things.  Nobody 
hushed  up,  or  stopped  suddenly,  seeming  as  if  they  were 
shocked,  or  could  imagine  that  they  were  supposed  to  be.  It 
was  so  nice  to  be  among  people  of  nice  perceptions. 

Mrs.  Cope  kissed  me  when  she  said  good-night.  The  soft 
lace  lappet  of  her  little  cap  touched  my  cheek,  and  that  deli- 
cate, nameless  odor  of  things  exquisitely  cared  for  came  with 
my  breath  for  an  instant,  and  the  word  "  mother  "  was  in  my 
heart  again. 

Augusta  Hare  went  up  when  I  did,  and  Grandon  Cope  gave 
us  our  candles,  and  held  open  the  door  for  us. 

It  was  an  altogether  different  thing,  and  yet  somehow  it  put 
me  in  mind  of  the  good-nights  at  the  Farm,  and  Richard  Hatha- 
way lighting  a  little  lamp  for  me  with  a  coal  from  the  fireplace, 
and  the  going  from  the  warm  kitchen  into  the  little  press-room 
where  I  slept  so  safe.  Was  it  so  different?  Or  only  the 
same  sweet  tune,  played  in  a  different  key? 

I  lay  awake  for  a  time  that  seemed  like  hours.  I  suppose  it 
might  really  have  been  one.  My  young  brain  was  all  awhirl 
with  high  excitement ;  it  would  not  stop  when  the  evening 
ended,  but  went  on  and  on,  over  and  over,  with  it  all,  in  mar- 
vellous flashes  of  repetition. 

Augusta  Hare  had  said  to  me  when  she  went  away,  "  You 
got  on  famouslv,  only  don't  break  down  in  the  midst  again,  as 
if  you  were  a  sort  of  Cinderella,  and  it  had  struck  twelve." 


122  HITHERTO: 

That  was  just  it.  A  fairy  godmother  gave  me  a  beautiful 
dress,  and  lent  me  a  bit  of  a  beautiful  life  ;  I  could  forget  my- 
self in  it  for  a  while ;  but  something  jarred,  and  I  was  back  in 
what  I  had  lived  in  so  long  ;  a  sort  of  meanness  and  rags.  I 
believe  that  is  what  the  old  fable  means. 

Yet  the  rags  were  the  false  things.  How  is  it  that  they 
cling  to  people  so  ? 

I  went  to  sleep  at  last,  and  dreamed  that  everybody  at  South 
Side  was  out  on  the  terrace,  fitting  on  glass  shoes  ;  nobody's 
would  go  on  but  mine  ;  and  then  everybody  brought  theics  to 
me,  and  I  slipped  my  foot  into  every  one  ;  and  they  all  shouted 
and  applauded,  and  brought  me  heaps  and  heaps  ;  till  —  crack  ! 
away  went  one  into  shivers  that  Grandon  Cope  stood  offering 
me,  and  at  the  same  moment  a  great  bell,  with  Aunt  Ildy's 
eyes  looking  out  of  it,  swung  over  my  head,  and  seemed  to 
crash  through  me  as  if  I,  too,  were  made  of  glass  and  shivering 
to  splinters  ;  and  then  there  was  nothing  left  but  ray  little  old 
self  in  a  dreadful  bonnet  that  Miss  Chism  had  pinned  up  with 
faded  ribbons  and  broken  straw,  and  I  had  a  great  rent  in  my 
dress,  and  my  feet  in  shabby  shoes,  and  Richard  Hathaway 
came  and  led  me  away. 


A  STORY  OF  YESTERDAYS.  123 


CHAPTER  X. 

ON  THE   HOUSE-TOP. 

NEXT  morning  we  all  —  we  girls,  I  mean  —  went  down  the 
garden  and  away  into  the  lane  after  flowers  and  vines  for  the 
tables  and  baskets  and  vases.  In  the  garden  we  got  roses  and 
white  lilies,  gay  scarlet  geraniums  and  great  purple  velvet 
pansies,  and  sprays  of  light  vines,  cypress,  and  creeping  myr- 
tle ;  in  the  lane  that  ran  with  its  banks  of  shade  all  along 
against  the  garden  foot  we  found  wealth  of  clematis  and  wild 
woodbine.  Then  we  came  back  and  made  the  house  a  bower. 
"We  sat  in  the  long,  cool  hall,  and  cut  our  wreaths  and 'assorted 
our  clusters,  and  flitted  back  and  forth,  putting  them  about  in 
the  rooms ;  and  then  we  gathered  up  the  refuse  into  a  wide 
basket,  and  a  housemaid  carried  it  off,  and  brushed  up  every 
scrap  from  the  white  India  matting ;  and  nobody  was  put  out, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  no  labor  had  been  done,  or  any  "  clutter  " 
—  that  bugbear  of  Aunt  Ildy's  stem  house-keeping  —  had  been 
made.  Things  seemed  to  work  out  and  fall  into  order  in  this 
house,  as  I  suppose  they  must  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven. 

Afterward,  we  had  a  long  morning  in  Mrs.  Cope's  room. 

"When  I  think  of  these  times,  I  remember  every  little  detail, 
and  I  cannot  help  dwelling  upon  them  all  and  living  them  over. 
They  were  so  much  to  me.  They  made  an  atmosphere  of  liv- 
ing into  which  I  can  seem  to  go  back  with  the  thought  of  them. 
Things  have  this  power  with  me  that  impress  me  at  all.  Books 
do  it ;  and  people  whose  experience  I  have  entered  into  by  a 
sympathy  that  had  its  root  often  in  the  longing  of  my  nature 
for  the  same.  A  breath  of  pleasantness  across  the  commonest 
day  of  my  own  living,  a  puff  of  summer  air  even,  or  the  smell 
of  a  pink,  or  the  clearing  up  after  a  shower,  will  bring  up  a 
subtle  essence  of  all  these  things  to  me,  the  spirit  of  which  I 


1 24  HITHERTO  : 

have  been  gathering  from  here  and  there,  even  while  the  letter 
was  denied  me.  I  am  old  enough  now  to  have  learned  that 
we  don't  want  the  letter  half  the  time.  It  is  true  in  this  way 
also,  that  it  sometimes  killeth.  It  is  the  spirit  only  which 
giveth  life.  The  world  is  but  a  show  of  things  ;  a  kindergar- 
ten, where  we  learn  by  object-lessons.  It  is  only  the  very 
little  ones  to  whom  the  object  is  all. 

Augusta  dressed  my  hair  for  dinner,  in  quite  a  grown-up 
style,  making  a  long  French  twist  of  it,  and  gathering  the  ends 
of  that  which  she  parted  at  the  front  in  clusters  of  little  curls, 
to  fall  behind  my  ears.  She  put  a  white  rose  with  green 
leaves  against  the  coil  of  the  twist  at  the  side,  and  a  few  buds 
and  leaves,  for  a  breast  knot,  upon  the  lace  which  fell  over 
my  silk  dress  from  around  my  throat.  Her  own  hair  was  done 
in  a  low  round  coil  behind,  and  carried  back  from  the  front  in 
wide-looped,  heavy  braids,  in  which  she  had  woven  some 
white  cypress  blossoms  that  looked  like  little  stars. 

I  had  never  been  at  a  regular  dinner  before.  It  was  like  a 
feast  served  in  the  "  Arabian  Nights."  The  still  coming  and 
going  of  the  servants,  the  noiseless  changing  of  plates  and 
dishes,  the  delicate  garnishings,  the  simplicity  of  the  elegance 
that  made  even  me  feel  in  five  minutes  as  if  it  were  such  a 
matter  of  course,  and  a  thing  I  had  so  long  been  used  to,  — 
all  this  was  different  from  any  "  having  company"  that  I  ever 
saw  before. 

With  Aunt  Ildy  "  company  "  was  a  kind  of  a  fever.  From 
the  baking  of  the  cake  to  the  getting  out  of  the  best  china,  it 
was  a  succession  of  crises ;  and  there  was  no  knowing  what 
turn  any  of  them  would  take.  We  stopped  living  beforehand, 
and  took  it  up  again  when  the  company  was  gone.  The 
interval  was  an  abnormal  condition.  Here,  into  a  beautiful, 
established  living,  friends  came,  and  that  was  all.  In  this 
again  there  was  a  strange  reminder,  even  with  a  contrast,  of 
Hathaway  Farm.  There  you  "  dropped  in,  laid  off  your 
things,  and  stayed  ;  "  and  everything  was  always  ready.  So 
people  borrowed  a  little  freshness  from  each  other,  and  got 
really  something  out  of  each  other's  sphere  and  story.  In 
the  other  fashion,  "taking  tea  out"  was  being  out;  you  got 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  125 

into  nobody's  home  ;  one  place  was  like  another ;  you  might 
as  well  go  and  sit  upon  a  fence  between  your  fields. 

Allard  Cope  sat  by  me  at  the  table ;  and  when  we  left  the 
dining-room  and  scattered  ourselves  in  the  hall  and  library 
and  drawing-room  while  cups  of  tea  and  coffee  were  being 
carried  about,  he  took  me  out  on  the  broad  front  steps,  and 
the  other  younger  ones  came  too,  and  we  sat  there  chatting 
and  laughing  in  the  soft  dusk  that  was  rather  a  glow  between 
the  fulness  of  day  and  the  night-radiance  that  was  coming. 

Mr.  Grandon  Cope  had  gone  up  into  a  little  room  that  was 
his  in  the  half-story  in  the  roof.  He  had  a  telescope  here,  and 
a  flight  of  steps  ran  up  through  a  skylight  window  to  the  flat 
centre  of  the  house-top.  He  was  going  to  take  out  and  fix 
his  instrument,  and  show  us  by  and  by  the  conjunction  of 
Jupiter  and  the  moon. 

"  If  you  like,  that  is,"  said  Allard,  carelessly,  telling  us. 
"  I  don't  think  I'm  anxious.  The  planets  can  take  care  of 
themselves  ;  they're  pretty  sure  to  be  in  the  right  places  ;  I'd 
as  lief  take  Gran's  and  the  Almanac's  word  for  it,  and  look 
after  the  conjunctions  down  here." 

Allard  was  not  a  bit  like  Grandon  ;  he  was  clever  enough, 
and  he  would  always  be  a  gentleman  ;  he  would  have  that 
nameless  grace  of  society  that  shapes  one's  orbit  in  it  and 
makes  it  bright  and  wide  ;  he  would  be  satisfied  with  this,  and 
leave,  as  he  said,  the  planets  and  such  -matters  to  take  care  of 
themselves. 

But  the  crown  of  a  man's  manhood  to  me  is  some  insight  or 
authority  or  knowledge  that  puts  him  above  the  ordinary 
plane  of  every-day  things ;  he  must  take  hold  somewhere, 
spiritually  or  intellectually,  upon  the  things  of  God. 

There  was  a  great  chair-swing  in  one  of  the  lindens,  in  which 
two  of  us  could  sit  together  ;  we  went  out  to  it  presently,  and 
Allard  sent  Sarah  Braithley  and  me  tossing  up  into  the 
branches. 

We  stayed  here  under  the  deep  boughs,  taking  our  turns  in 
the  swing,  till  it  grew  quite  uurk  in  the  shadows  ;  darker  than 
we  had  thought  it  would  be  on  this  bright  night,  though  there 


126  HITHERTO: 

was  an  hour  yet  before  moonrise.  The  wind  was  coming  up, 
too,  stronger,  out  of  the  south. 

Before  we  thought  of  going  in,  it  had  got  to  be  so  that 
there  was  only  the  gleam  of  our  light  dresses  to  see  each  other 
by.  The  great  tree,  arching  down  on  every  side  to  the  deep 
grass,  made  a  mysterious  gloom,  into  which  we  could  seem  to 
look  as  into  an  immense  distance  where  sight  lost  itself. 
Swinging  out  toward  the  verge,  we  saw  the  bright  house- 
lights  twinkle  suddenly,  and  then  go  out  as  we  dropped  back 
into  the  thick  shade. 

There  were  only  Kitty  Cope,  the  Braithleys,  and  I.  Au- 
gusta and  Laura  were  singing  in  the  drawing-room. 

Suddenly,  across  the  music,  there  came  a  deep,  low  roll,  and 
the  quick  leaves  rustled  with  a  wind  that  ran  sharply  through 
them. 

"  I  felt  a  drop  upon  my  foot.  It  rains  !  "  cried  Kitty,  out 
of  the  swing,  coming  back  from  a  long  flight. 

Allard  caught  the  chair-frame,  and  ran  after  it  as  it  swept 
on  in  a  fresh  vibration,  bringing  it  back  with  him  to  a  stop. 
The  two  girls  slid  out,  and  we  all  started  for  the  house.  Be- 
fore we  got  there,  there  came  a  streak  of  quick  flame  across 
the  darkness,  and  a  peal  of  near  thunder  smote  the  air. 
Great  drops  began  to  fall.  A  cloud  had  rushed  up  out  of  the 
hot  south-west,  where  flickers  of  heat-lightning  had  been  pl:rv- 
ing,  and  hung  above  us  ;  only  the  heavy  border  rolled  up 
now,  against  the  dim-lighted  east.  Just  as  we  sprang  upon 
the  bank,  somebody  shut  the  hall  door.  The}r  were  pulling 
clown  sashes  hastily,  all  around,  inside,  and  running  up  and 
down  as  people  do  in  a  great,  open  house  when  a  summer 
storm  comes  up.  Nobody  thought  of  our  being  out.  "Who- 
ever came  to  the  door  saw  no  one  on  the  broad  porch  or  steps, 
and  there  it  was  fast  with  a  catch-lock.  Allard  pulled  the 
bell,  but  the  servants  were  upstairs  shutting  bedroom  win- 
dows now,  and  whoever  else  heard  it  may  have  fancied  it  a 
summons  only  to  some  fresh  point  within. 

"  We  might  as  well  run  round,"  he  said ;  and  we  all  turned, 
at  first,  to  go  with  him.  But  the  path  among  the  trees, 
around  the  whole  front  half  part  and  wing,  was  something  to 


A    STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  127 

undertake  with  great  drops  driving  faster,  and  the  lightning 
quivering  overhead.  I  was  afraid  of  the  storm,  and  —  I 
remembered  my  new  silk  dress.  "  Green  would  run,"  I  had 
heard  Aunt  Ildy  say  when  it  came  home.  So  I  stopped  short, 
and  waited,  standing  close  up  in  the  shelter  of  the  door.  I 
knew  they  would  let  me  in  whejn  they  got  round. 
-  But  they  did  not  miss  me  at  the  first,  when  they  all  ran  in 
together  from  the  terrace  and  mingled  with  the  rest,  thinking 
that  I  of  course  had  followed. 

I  had  time,  all  alone,  to  see  a  fearful  blaze,  to  hear  a  close 
hissing,  and  a  crash,  a  splintering  down  through  something, 
aud  an  explosion  that  enveloped  all.  I  had  time,  after  that, 
to  ring  vehemently  and  to  call,  and  to  fling  myself  against  the 
door  with  a  frantic  feeling  that  I  must,  somehow,  get  behind 
it,  —  put  it  between  me  and  the  storm.  And  then  Grandon 
Cope  opened  it,  and  I  fell  forward,  and  he  caught  me  up  and 
lifted  me  in. 

"•  You  poor  child  !  "  he  exclaimed,  amazed  and  commiserat- 
ing. "  How  in  the  name  of  wonder  came  you  there? " 

And  after  that  he  took  care  of  me  all  the  evening. 

Augusta  Hare  was  by  his  side  as  he  opened  the  door.  She 
told  the  story  afterward  better  than  ever  I  could,  and  made 
more  of  it.  Her  sensation  of  the  shock,  her  belief  that  the 
house  itself  was  struck,  the  sudden  pealing  of  the  bell,  and  the 
falling  of  something  against  the  door,  and  their  pulling  me  in, 
half  senseless,  so  that  she  thought  at  first  glimpse  of  me  that 
I  was  killed :  you  saw  the  picture,  as  you  always  did,  from 
her  stand-point,  and  she  was  better  than  the  foreground.  I 
had  my  fright  and  my  dim  recollection  of  an  instant  alone 
with  the  storm  ;  but  I  had  nothing  to  tell.  It  was  an  old  pop- 
lar tree,  across  the  road,  that  had  been  struck.  It  was  the 
first  time  in  my  life  that  I  had  felt  how  near  the  terrible  ele- 
menfc  might  come.  It  was  not  to  be  the  last. 

Grandon  Cope  took  care  of  me  all  the  evening.  I  don't 
mean  that  he  held  me  in  his  arms,  or  sat  by  my  side  ;  Augusta 
did  these  things ;  but  he  came  and  went,  with  something  t© 
show  me,  or  a  word  to  say  that  reassured  me,  every  littic 
while.  There  were  other  things  to  do,  too.  Other  guests 


128  HITHERTO : 

were  terrified ;  were  anxious  about  their  drives  home,  and 
their  horses  ;  the  storm  continued,  close  and  sharp  about  us, 
for  an  hour.  Amusement  and  conversation  were  given  up  ; 
people  only  watched  the  keen  returning  flashes,  and  listened 
for  the  hope  of  longer  intervals  between  them  and  the  rever- 
berations that  shook  the  building. 

I  shrank  and  trembled  at  every  one,  but  I  said  nothing.  I 
was  too  strengthless  with  dread  for  a  while  to  cry  out  as  others 
did,  or  to  ask  questions.  It  was  the  more  thoughtful  in  Gran- 
don  Cope  to  soothe  me  so,  and  to  help  me  gradually  to  a  rea- 
sonable sort  of  courage  ;  even,  at  last,  to  a  positive  enjoyment, 
in  what  would  else  have  stamped  itself  irretrievably  upon  my 
3roung  nerves  as  a  terror  never  to  be  conquered. 

"  There  is  very  little  fear,"  he  said,  standing  by  the  arm  of 
the  sofa,  as  a  long,  fierce  rattle  died  away  ;  "  the  biggest  of 
us  only  furnishes  six  feet  or  so  of  conducting  power  ;  it  will  al- 
ways get  hold  of  something  better  when  it  can.  Just  see  that 
you  don't  make  yourself  a  link  in  a  chain  ;  that  is  all  you  have 
to  do." 

If  he  had  said  there  was  no  danger,  it  would  not  have  com- 
forted me  at  all ;  but  the  "  very  little  "  and  the  reason  why,  — 
these  helped  me  to  my  first  long  breath. 

"  I  was  up  on  the  roof  when  it  began  ;  I  had  my  telescope 
to  bring  down.  I'm  sorry  our  astronomy  was  spoiled  to- 
night." 

.  •  "  Oh,  I  wanted  so  to  look  through  the  telescope  !  "  I  cried, 
remembering  my  anticipations,  and  that  I  must  go  home  to- 
morrow. 

"  There  may  be  a  chance  yet.  It's  only  a  bit  of  a  cloud  in 
the  way.  When  you  think  of  the  stars  waiting  just  the  same 
beyond,  it  seems  a  very  little  fizz,  doesn't  it?" 

"Perhaps  it  does,"  I  said.  "  But  then,  we  are  very  little  ; 
ever  so  much  littler,  you  know ;  and  we  are  right  in  the 
fizz ! " 

Mr.  Cope  laughed. 

"  Think  of  something  yet  less,  then.  Think  of  all  the  lit- 
tle birds  in  their  nests  ;  and  how  they  will  sing,  hundreds  of 
them,  when  the  sun  comes  up  to-morrow  morning." 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  *129 

"  Ah,  that's  a  comfort,"  said  I,  my  long  breath  going  out 
with  a  sigh.  I  did  not  think  of  it  then,  and  I  don't  know 
whether  he  did,  but  I  have  remembered  it  since ;  that  it  was 
the  very  comfort  Christ  gave  us  himself.  "  Not  a  sparrow 
falleth  ;  "  and  "  Ye  are  of  more  value  than  many  sparrows." 
He  translated  God's  special  words  to  us,  written  in  his  crea- 
tion ;  and  they  always  stand. 

"It  is  better  to  face  it,"  Mr.  Cope  said,  coming  again  by 
and  by.  "  Then  you  know  where  it  really  is,  and  what  it  is 
about.  When  it's  just  overhead,  you  can't,  of  course ;  but 
that  seldom  comes,  and  never  lasts  long ;  and  it's  no  use  to 
sit  fancying  it  overhead.  Come  this  way  with  me,  won't  you? 
We'll  watch  it  off." 

He  led  us  —  Augusta  came  too  —  into  the  library,  and 
pulled  seats  for  us  into  the  great  bay-window.  The  blinds  were 
all  open, —  I  believe  he  had  been  in  and  set  them  so  on  purpose, — 
and  away  toward  the  north  the  mass  of  cloud  was  drifting,  and 
showed  itself  to  us  by  rosy  sheets  and  golden  chainwork  of 
gorgeous  lightnings  that  illumined  and  embroidered  it. 

"  It  is  the  purple  lightning  that  is  dangerous,"  Augusta 
said.  "  When  it  grows  red  like  that,  it  is  passing  over." 

"  The  distance  changes  the  effect.  The  close  blaze  is 
livid  and  blinding.  Look  !  " 

Overlapping  edges  of  great  banks  of  piled-up  vapor  were 
grandly  shown  by  sudden  darting  flames  that  seemed  to  run 
along  their  curves,  and  bury  themselves  behind  the  bosom 
of  blackness.  Back  and  forth,  each  to  each,  they  flashed 
their  magnificent  telegraphy,  and  between  them  rolled  the 
incessant  voice  of  thunders.  All  around  the  mid-sky  and  the 
horizon,  settling  momently  lower,  and  wheeling  northward,  lay 
the  receding  showers  ;  while  here,  about  us,  only  a  few  great 
drops,  flashing  from  roof  and  branches,  came  from  overhead. 
Yet  the  bright  gleams  shone  vivid  across  the  night,  and  the 
echoing  peals  swelled  now  and  then  to  sudden  crashes. 

"I  told  you  this  was  better,"  said  Grandon  Cope.  "Half 
of  them  in  the  other  rooms  think  we  are  in  the  midst  of  it 
still." 

"  You  see  the  chief  of  the  business  lies  between  themselves, 
9 


130  HITHERTO  : 

after  all,"  he  said  again,  reaching  his  hand  toward  the  heap- 
ing clouds  making  their  dazzling  interchanges.  "  There  is  the 
whole  heaven  to  sweep  through;  and,  at  the  worst,  hundreds 
of  objects  beside  one's  self  in  the  little  radius  it  may  most 
threaten." 

"  I  never  can  realize  that,"  said  Augusta.  "  I  forget  other 
houses  and  other  people.  I  always  feel,  somehow,  as  if  I  and 
the  thunder-cloud  had  it  all  between  us." 

"  It  doesn't  always  do  to  centralize  one's  self,"  said  Gran- 
don  Cope.  lie  looked  at  her  as  he  spoke,  in  an  earnest  sort 
of  way  I  had  seen  in  him  with  her  before,  already.  He 
seemed  somehow  to  study  Augusta  Hare. 

What  she  said  of  the  thunder-cloud  was  true  of  her  relation 
with  persons,  with  pursuits,  with  whatever  of  especial  was 
about  or  going  on.  She  and  this,  whatever  it  might  be,  were 
for  the  time  the  two  centres,  —  the  foci.  They  had  it  all 
between  them.  Life  lay  round  her  so,  in  a  continual  ellipse. 
Society  conformed  itself  in  such-wise  almost  always  where 
she  was.  She  and  one  other,  her  objective,  —  perhaps  a  per- 
son, perhaps  only  the  amusement  or  the  topic,  —  would  grad- 
ually get  their  bearings,  and  the  whole  movement  would 
seem  to  swing  about  them.  She  would  make  a  lecturer  or  a 
preacher,  preach  or  lecture  to  herself,  before  the  utterance 
was  half  through.  The  whole  audience  might  not  find  this 
out,  but  the  speaker  would,  and  a  few  about  her  would  dis- 
cover themselves  less  listening,  than  watching  how  she  lis- 
tened. I  have  said  that  this  was  her  attitude,  alwa}'s,  with 
events.  I  do  not  think  she  could  possibly  help  it.  It  was  a 
magnetism  —  a  temperament.  I  do  not  know  that  she  might 
not  readily  have  drawn  a  danger  so,  if  a  danger  were  the 
thing  .to  be  drawn.  But  if  a  rescue  came,  it  would  come  to 
her.  She  was  always  lucky  in  a  lottery.  She  held  high 
trumps  at  whist,  pairs  royal  at  commerce,  and  threw  the  num- 
bers that  made  the  play  at  backgammon.  There  is  a  phi- 
losophy and  a  law  in  these  things. 

"  One  gets  more  out  of  life  so,"  she  answered. 

"Unless  one  can  live  large  enough  to  feel  from  many 
centres." 


A    STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  131 

"  I  don't  think  one  can  be  both  diffusive  and  intense,"  said 
she. 

But  Augusta  Hare's  intenseness  was  only  at  the  self-point. 
She  was  always  one  centre ;  but  the  ellipse  might  wheel  itself 
bodily  about,  and  embrace  any  new  second  that  she  chose,  or 
even  that  chanced. 

I  thought  sometimes,  afterward,  that  it  might  have  been  a 
problem  like  this  that  Grandon  Cope  was  studying. 

It  was  not  by  obtrusiveness,  or  chatter,  or  assertion,  that 
Augusta  did  it ;  she  had  infinite  tact,  and  exquisite  breeding. 
To-night,  for  instance,  she  said  so  little ;  and  I  myself  was 
apparently  the  object  of  Grandon  Cope's  solicitous  interest ; 
but  he  was  helping  her  ;  I  was  her  charge  ;  she  was  quite  taken 
up  with  managing  me  beautifully,  I  being  the  thing  just  then 
to  be  managed  ;  it  was  just  the  two  centres  and  he  revolving 
about  us. 

After  the  guests  had  gone  and  we  went  upstairs,  Augusta 
walked  down  the  long  upper  hall  to  the  south-east  window  at 
the  end,  that  opened  out  on  a  little  balcony.  She  pushed  up 
the  sash,  —  for  the  air  had  grown  warm  and  heavy  inside, 
being  shut  up  so  during  the  storm,  —  and  stepped  through. 

She  gave  just  one  exclamation  of  a  passionate  delight. 

"  Oh,  glorious  !  "  she  cried,  not  suddenly,  but  with  a  slow, 
strong  dwelling  on  the  words. 

There  was  something  in  the  tones  of  Augusta's  voice  of  a 
strange,  peculiar  quality.  They  were, 'in  a  fashion,  ventrilo- 
quial.  She  never  shouted  ;  she  never  called  to  people  loudly  ; 
she  did  not  raise  her  utterance  above  the  gentle  musicalness 
that  should  be  a  woman's  ;  but  it  penetrated,  and  went  just 
whither  she  would.  It  arrested  you  like  the  low  bell-tinkle 
of  some  ringing  instrument,  introduced  into  a  full-crashing 
orchestra  ;  there  were  twenty  louder,  but  this  was  of  itself,  and 
marked  the  pulse  of  the  harmony.  That  was  how  it  seemed 
even  in  a  buzzing  crowd  ;  but  when  she  chose  to  speak  like 
this,  across  a  few  chance  words  and  laughs,  such  as  were 
sounding  about  the  stair-head  as  the  girls  gathered  there,  it 
shot  straight  through  them  all  to  the  point  she  meant  that  it 
should  reach. 


132  HITHEHTO: 

Grandon  Cope  walked  down  the  gallery  too,  and  came  out 
there  to  her  side. 

"  There  she  is,"  Augusta  said,  pointing  straight  away,  where, 
in  a  depth  of  midnight  blue,  between  white  rifts  of  clouds,  at 
about  thirty  degrees  above  the  south-easterly  horizon,  hung  the 
moon,  four  days  past  her  full ;  and  close  beside  her, —  an  aste- 
risk of  glory  to  point  her  to  men's  eyes,  — the  imperial  planet ; 
small,  intense,  with  his  sixteen  hundred  times'  distance,  but 
mighty  in  his  splendor  to  prevail  across  it  all. 

Augusta  Hare  and  that  picture  in  the  heavens  ;  they  had  it 
between  them,  now. 

She  stood  still  and  gazed,  while  the  chatting  went  on  at  the 
stairway  ;  while  one  or  two  came  and  glanced  over  our  shoul- 
ders,—  I  had  gone  out  also, —  uttered  some  word  of  admira- 
tion, and  were  content  to  return,  since  the  little  balcony 
could  not  hold  them  all,  and  their  jest  or  story  was  not  done 
with  yet ;  until  they  got  inside  their  rooms  that  opened  one 
into  another  so  that  they  might  talk  there  half  the  night ;  and 
then  she  said :  — 

"  If  the  telescope  were  here  now,  Mr.  Grandon  !  " 

"It  would  be  better  on  the  roof;  the  balcony  is  narrow, 
and  the  window-sash  is  in  the  way ;  would  you  mind  coming 
up?" 

There  was  nothing  to  object  to,  of  course ;  it  was  only  a 
sort  of  study  and  observatory  that  he  had  up  there ;  we  were 
all  to  have  gone  up  if  the  weather  had  been  fine  ;  people  were 
still  moving  below,  and  would  be  ;  lights  were  burning  ;  the 
doors  from  the  girls'  rooms  were  not  even  shut  upon  the  gal- 
lery ;  the  evening  was  not  over,  only  the  party  was,  and  it 
was  just  near  enough  the  coming  night-stillness  to  be  beautiful. 

Augusta  did  not  hesitate  an  instant ;  if  she  had,  from  that 
moment  there  would  have  been  an  objection  ;  she  said  at  once 
with  the  utmost  simpleness  :  — 

"  I  should  like  it  exceedingly ;  and  to  show  Annie,  too  ;  for 
she  goes  to-morrow." 

"  That  is  too  soon,"  said  Grandon  Cope,  kindly,  and  I  took 
what  fell  to  my  share,  and  went  upstairs,  quite  happy,  after 
those  two. 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  133 

It  was  beautiful  to  be  a  woman  grown,  though,  like  Augusta, 
and  to  stand  on  a  level  with  a  man  like  Grandon  Cope ;  to 
talk  freely,  and  to  dare  to  have  opinions,  and  to  get  his ;  I 
with  my  fifteen-years-old  brain  and  heart  had  my  questions 
and  longings,  and  there  had  never  been  anybody  in  all  my  life 
to  meet  and  answer  them. 

"  They  were  behind  it  all ;  just  as  you  said  ! " 

The  words  seemed  only  to  escape  Augusta,  hardly  to  be  ad- 
dressed to  him,  as  she  stood  there  by  the  low  roof-railing, 
while  he  mounted  and  adjusted  the  instrument. 

"  Yes  ;  there  is  no  mistake,  in.  all  these  wonderful  heavens. 
And  the  clouds  know  their  places  too,  as  well.  I  think  we 
needn't  be  afraid  !  " 

He  seemed  to  say  this  last  rather  to  me,  in  a  half-playful 
way,  but  Augusta  answered  it.  With  this  strong,  serious  man, 
she  could  be  serious  too ;  less  strong ;  that  was  her  charm, 
doubtless. 

"  But  terrible  things  happen.  And  we  can't  see  what  tlve 
evil  is  for."  So  she  touched  the  great,  troubled,  unanswered 
question ;  and  looked  to  him  as  if  he  might  haply  solve  it. 

"  It  takes  thousands  of  years  records  to  prove  the  compensa- 
tion for  disturbance  yonder,"  Grandon  Cope  replied,  with  his 
face  toward  the  stars.  "  God  works  at  an  infinite  diagram." 

It  was  like  a  thought  that  had  come  to  him  so  in  his  daily 
pursuit  and  research  that  it  was  quite  familiar.  He  spoke 
without  a  change  of  manner,  and  the  next  moment  he  turned 
to  me,  as  I  stood  waiting  eager ly  by  his  side. 

"  I  think  you'll  have  it  now.     Look  here." 

I  knelt  down  on  a  cushion  he  had  brought,  and  looked,  and 
saw.  Congealed  shapes  and  wonders ;  frost-work,  or  molten 
work,  or  some  strange,  unknown,  luminous  matter,  caught 
and  arrested  in  a  thousand  midway  forms  ;  a  world,  seen  just 
near  and  far.  enough  to  show  its  whole  rough  idea  and  outline  ; 
its  finish  and  detail  beyond  our  vision,  or  yet  to  come ;  it 
made  me  think  of  glowing,  unshaped  metal  from  a  forge ;  it 
was  like  seeing  a  piece  of  God's  work  on  his  anvil. 

And  then  Mr.  Cope  just  touched  his  finger  to  the  tube,  with 
hardly  the  pressure  of  a  breath,  and  lo !  the  disk  changed ; 


134  HITHERTO: 

the  lustrous  mass  swept  suddenly  from  the  field,  leaving  to 
sight  only  a  jagged  curve  and  gleaming  points ;  and  I  saw, 
white,  and  round,  and  infinitely  far,  —  a  drop,  as  it  were,  not 
of  flame,  but  its  essence,  —  a  something  clear  like  a  sun,  and 
compact  like  a  pure  and  perfect  thought,  — the  planet  poised  in 
ether  ;  firm  in  the  grasp  of  awful  force,  still  in  the  eternal  rush 
and  fall  of  its  tremendous  motions. 

What  I  knew  and  what  I  saw  put  themselves  together  so, 
and  showed  me  this. 

"  The  satellites  cannot  be  seen,  of  course,"  said  Augusta, 
coining  to  take  my  place  as  I  moved  away,  like  one  who  has 
no  right  to  linger,  being  presented  to  majesty. 

Her  words  seemed  trivial,  somehow. 

"  No,"  Grandon  answered.  "  He  is  like  some  great  prince 
from  a  far  kingdom,  laying  aside  his  retinue  and  state 
in  courtesy  to  the  little  queen  whom  he  salutes  to  night." 

I  could  see  Augusta's  smile  in  the  moonlight.  It  pleased 
her,  this  readiness  and  grace.  This  was  what  passed  current 
in  the  world,  and  bought  there  what  it  would. 

She  valued  him  at  once  too  little  and  too  much.  I  saw  it 
then.  She  could  not  reckon  his  whole  worth.  She  discounted, 
as  brokers  do  a  foreign  coin. 

He  shifted  round  the  tube,  and  showed  us  other  glories. 
He  pointed  it  low  to  the  north-west,  and  found  the  golden  locks 
of  Berenice,  clustered  stars  of  the  fourth  magnitude,  faintly 
traceable  by  the  naked  eye  ;  he  wheeled  a  little  southward,  as 
the  summer  heavens  cleared,  and  brought  us  face  to  face  with 
white,  resplendent  Arcturus ;  far  southward  still,  and  lo, 
Altair,  glittering  between  the  wings  of  the  Eagle  ;  eastward  a 
little  to  Delphinus,  beautiful  lozenge  of  four  diamonds,  and 
Markab,  flashing  from  the  shoulder  of  the  Flying  Horse.  He 
showed  us  double  stars,  and  bright  shining  nebulae,  the  dust 
of  which  the  worlds  are  born ;  he  made  us  note  the  various- 
colored  fires  of  different  suns,  red,  golden,  and  pale  blue. 
He  told  us  of  the  wonderful  violet  splendor  of  Sirius,. fairest 
of  all  those  far-off  orbs,  shining  now  upon  the  under-world,  and 
coming  towards  us  with  the  morning ;  of  the  double  stars  of 
Orion;  of  Rigel  that  clasps  his  ankle,  marking  his  stride 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  135 

through  heaven,  and  Betelgeuse  that  sits  upon  his  shoulder, 
an  epaulet  of  pride  ;  of  the  Pleiades  and  Aldebaran,  magnifi- 
cent in  the  Bull ;  and  it  was  midnight,  and  Capella  shone  on 
the  north-eastern  rirn  of  the  now  cloudless  blue,  before  we  be- 
thought us,  and  went  down. 

The  girls  were  laughing  still,  and  the  servants'  steps  yet 
sounded  in  the  lower  rooms ;  but  in  half  an  hour  more  the 
house  was  still,  and  I  was  falling  into  strange  dreams ;  of 
Augusta  Hare  and  Grandon  Cope  walking  with  winged  feet 
among  the  constellations,  and  of  myself,  wistful  and  wonder- 
ing, looking  up  at  them  from  beneath. 


136  HITHERTO : 


CHAPTER  XI. 

WHAT  A  VOICE  TELLS. 
OF  HOPE   DEVINE. 

SHE  was  only  washing  dishes  in  a  kitchen  sink  ;  they  were 
heaped  all  around  her,  and  the  great  pan  steamed  in  the 
middle ;  she  had  a  long  towel  over  her  arm,  and  her  hands 
moved  swiftly  to  and  fro,  dropping  cups  and  saucers  deftly 
into  the  scalding  water,  and  catching  them  out  by  the  edges 
that  she  tipped  toward  her  with  her  mop-stick ;  swirling  the 
cleansing  suds  around  and  within  them  almost  by  the  same 
movement,  and  then  transferring  them  to  the  comforting  folds 
of  the  soft,  coarse  linen  out  of  which  they  came  instantly, 
glittering,  and  dropped  with  a  single  ringing  touch,  —  no  clat- 
ter, —  each  to  its  own  polished  pile  upon  the  white,  dry  table 
at  the  side. 

Only  washing  dishes,  —  Hope  Devine  ;  but  doing  it,  as  she 
did  all  things  else,  and  as  nobody  else  did  anything.  No 
bigger  thing  sat  tilting  upon  a  smaller ;  no  crumbs  and  frag- 
ments, crushed  and  smeared  together,  made  the  work  re- 
pulsive ;  there  was  a  magnetism  of  order  in  what  she  touched, 
and  a  visible  tending  toward  completion ;  you  could  see 
through  it,  standing  by ;  she  saw  through  it,  by  an  instinct, 
from  the  beginning.  So  no  work  ever  looked  hard  or  hopeless 
to  her,  or  where  she  set  her  hand.  She  was  quick  to  see  not 
only  into  things,  but  on  to  wh'at  they  were  to  be  ;  if  you  were  to 
put  her  faculty  into  a  single  word  that  should  betray  its 
secret,  you  would  call  it  onsight. 

She  was  therefore  never  discouraged ;  washing  dishes,  or 
living  her  life  ;  she  never  stopped  short  in  the  middle,  balked 
by  difficulty  or  default.  She  made  things  do ;  there  was  al- 


A    STOUT  OF   YESTERDAYS.  137 

ways  enough;  it  "  came  out"  or  it  "went  in"  somehow,  as 
she  said,  and  meant  it  should. ;  by  the  pure  force  of  will,  Mrs. 
Hathaway  thought  sometimes.  "  I  suppose  you  see  it ;  I 
don't,"  she  would  say.  Mrs.  Hathaway  thought  "  she  had 
never  come  across  such  a  girl  to  learn  in  her  life.  She  didn't 
learn  ;  she  just  jumped  at  it." 

"•  There's  that  sitting-room  carpet,"  she  told  everybody. 
"  Why,  there  seemed  to  me  to  be  yards  of  it  good  for  nothing, 
and  not  a  scrap  left  like  it  except  the  piece  laid  down  before 
the  fireplace,  and  a  bit  at  the  door.  Hope  stood  in  the  middle, 
and  looked  at  it,  after  we'd  spread  it  down.  '  I  see  how  it 
goes,'  said  she.  '  I  don't  believe  you  do,  for  it  don't  go,' 
says  I,  half  cross.  '  Yes/  says  she,  right  off,  as  spry  and 
pert  as  a  peeping  chicken.  '  Look  here !  You  don't  want 
any  under  that  great  sideboard.  That's  a  good  breadth  up 
against  the  wall.  Take  it  out  and  put  it  in  the  middle.  Then 
the  worn-out  piece  in  the  middle  (it  was  worn  out,  to  be  sure, 
for  it  was  a  gi'eat  hole,  and  no  piece  at  all)  can  be  cut  aci*oss, 
and  the  rest  put  each  way  from  the  sideboard.  Then  those 
two  ends  by  the  doors  can  be  taken  off ;  and  the  rug  pieces 
matched  on ;  and  there's  enough  good  along  the  selvages 
in  the  old  ends  to  make  out  that  narrow  strip  against  the 
hearth  that's  ragged.  You'll  see  ! '  So  I  just  let  her  go  to 
work,  and  I  helped  her  rip,  and  cut,  and  match,  and  catch- 
stitch,  and  darn ;  and  it  fairly  flew  together ;  seemed  as  if 
every  piece  knew  where  'twas  wanted  ;  and  she  sat  laughing, 
and  telling  some  fairy  tale  about  birds'  feathers  of  every  color 
and  kind  that  sorted  themselves  in  heaps  and  were  ready  in 
no  time,  and  by  night  we'd  a  bran-new  carpet  out  of  those 
rags.  She  sees  through  a  day's  work,  or  a  week's,  just  so  ; 
and  'tisn't  so  much  her  moving  quick  that  does  it,  as  a  kind 
of  faith,  the  mustard-seed  kind,  I  truly  believe.  It's  like 
turning  a  stocking ;  she  puts  her  hand  in  at  a  Monday 
morning  and  catches  a  Saturday  night  by  the  heel,  and  pulls 
it  through,  and  there  it  is  !  " 

She  was  only  washing  dishes  ;  but  there  was  the  sort  of 
pleasure  in  seeing  her  do  it,  that  there  is  in  watching  a  pian- 
ist's fingers,  touching  always,  and  so  swiftly,  the  right  keys ; 


138  HITHERTO: 

or  an  artist,  laying  his  pencil  here  or  there,  leaving  firm  lines 
and  just  shadows  ;  or  any  other  sure  and  dexterous  thing  that 
is  done,  in  art  or  industry,  or  for  a  beauty.  I  think  the  sound 
or  sight  that  is  born  of  the  work  is  only  the  record  that  it 
leaves  ;  it  is  the  achieving  that  we  think  of  secretly ;  the  touch 
of  faith  and  onsight. 

Richard  Hathaway  came  and  stood  in  the  doorway,  looking 
at  her. 

"  I  like  to  see  you  work,  Hope,"  said  he. 
Hope  worked  on,  with  a  smile  lightening  and  lingering  upon 
her  face ;  and  a  little  color  that  came  with  it  warming  her 
cheek ;  as  if  a  sun-ray  had  streamed  in  and  smitten  her. 

"  I'm  going  up  to  Longmead  this  afternoon,"  he  said  again, 
"  to  drive  back  the'  new  horse.  It's  a  grand,  pleasant  day. 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  go  ?  " 

Richard  Hathaway  never  felt  a  pleasantness  that  he  did 
not  seek  to  share  with  somebody. 

"  Certain,"  said  Hope,  in  a  quaint,  happy,  little  incorrect 
way  she  had  of  speaking.  Out  of  her  books,  and  from  daily 
intercourse  with  plain,  imprecise  people,  she  had  gathered  an 
odd  mixture  of  cultured  and- uncultured  speech, -that  per- 
haps expressed  what  she  was,  better  than  any  more  consistent 
style  could  have  done. 

"  Certain  I  should.  And  it's  good  of  you,  Richard." 
These  were  her  thanks.  Uttered  very  much  as  if  it  were 
good  of  him  of  course,  and  for  unnumbered  times,  and  hardly 
need  be  said  ;  as  we  say  other  thanks,  perhaps.  But  the  sun- 
shine deepened  rosier  up  her  cheeks,  and  glanced  in  her  eyes. 
like  light  through  a  clear  amber  wine  ;  flushed  and  glanced 
still,  after  Richard  had  gone  away  again. 

Hope  was  seventeen,  now.  Five  years  she  had  lived  with 
the  Hathaways.  Martha  went  and  came,  in  this  time  ;  up  the 
country  to  an  invalid  sister,  helping  her  "  fix  up  the  children, 
and  see  to  David  Henry's  clothes  ; "  or  "  lifting  them  along 
through  haying-time,"  or  a  "spring-cleaning;"  home  again 
for  a  "  winter  spell,"  or  to  do  the  June  butter-making.  Mrs. 
Hathaway  could  always  spare  her  best  just  when  she  wanted 
to  go,  and  was  "  proper  glad  "  to  see  her  back,  because  of 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  139 

something  that  was  just  afoot  at  that  time.  And  in  this 
household  where  all  things  chanced  "  as  well  as  not,"  and 
usually  better,  Hope's  sunny  nature  fitted  itself  in  with  other 
bright  things,  and  shone  on  ;  and  she  pulled  her  Saturday 
nights  through  from  her  Monday  mornings,  and  the  two  ends 
met,  and  the  life  was  rounded,  and  its  work  complete,  piece 
by  piece,  as  it  went  on. 

She  lived  by  weeks  and  days ;  for  doing  and  for  having 
what  she  could  see ;  she  did  not  trouble  herself  about  the 
years  ;  she  never  tried  to  pull  them  through. 

"What  if  Mrs.  Hathaway  should  die?"  Other  people 
said  this,  speaking  of  Hope  and  of  her  home  at  the  Farm  ;  but 
it  never  crossed  her  thought.  "  Or  if  Richard  —  "  people 
speculated  about  him  too,  still,  though  he  was  seven  and 
twenty,  and  pretty  Lucy  Kilham  was  married  and  gone  out  to 
Ohio,  long  ago  ;  but  Hope  never  did  ;  she  just  let  the  sunshine 
touch  her  as  it  came,  and  flushed  and  ripened  under  it  like 
a  peach  in  a  south  shelter.  If  she  ever  thought  of  what  she 
had  not,  it  was  as  of  a  great  reserve  out  of  which  all  good 
might  come  ;  not  as  of  a  wealth  withheld. 

"  Hope  lives  in  the  middle  of  her  pasture,"  said  Richard 
Hathaway  of  her  once.  "  She  doesn't  go  fretting  her  neck 
over  the  fence." 

Old  Putterkoo  went  comfortably  jogging  along  over  the 
Hill  Road ;  taking  her  own  pace  and  time.  Coming  home, 
there  would  be  a  young  horse  in  the  thills,  and  she  would  have 
to  keep  up  behind ;  this,  with  an  easy  pull  now,  would  be  a 
half  day's  work  for  her. 

Hope  sat  in  her  linen  cape  and  sun-bonnet,  with  a  shawl  on 
her  lap  for  the  return  drive,  happy  and  simple  like  a  child. 
To  be  out  in  the  fresh  June  air,  full  of  growth  and  sunshine, 
—  to  loiter  along  between  acres  square  of  mellow  ploughed 
grounds  rich  with  deep  brown  furrows  full  of  seed,  green 
mowings  where  every  lithe  stem  stood  instinct  with  full, 
springing,  juicy  life,  and  the  sweet  grass-smell  was  more 
delicate  than  flowers,  and  vivid  grain-fields  glowing  with 
young  green ;  over  slow  rise  of  long  hills  down  whose  farther 
sides  they  came  into  new  beauty  of  open  farms  or  green. 


140  HITHERTO : 

depths  of  woodpatches ;  across  singing  brooks,  —  through 
them,  now  and  then,  for  Putterkoo  to  wet  her  dusty  hoofs, 
and  the  clear  water  to  plash  up  over  hub  and  axle,  and  drip 
with  flash  and  tinkle  from  spoke  and  tire ;  past  still,  lovely 
glade-openings  into  shadows  among  old  pines,  where  a  foot- 
path or  a  cart-track  wound  away  into  the  wood-lots,  and  the 
ground  was  blue  with  tender  summer  violets,  all  along  the 
barest  road-side,  where  nothing  was  bare,  but  the  wide  way- 
borders,  crisp  with  short  pasture-grass,  were  starred  every- 
where with  delicate  houstonias,  white  like  snow  or  purple 
with  intenser  life ;  —  every  step  was  a  joy,  every  breath  a 
leaping  growth  of  soul  and  body  in  God's  bountiful  world  of 
light  and  fragrance. 

"  Are  you  afraid  of  Pitch  Hill,  Hope  ?"  I  brought  you  round 
this  way  for  the  prospect.  Such  a  day  as  this,  you'll  see  over 
three  counties.  There "  —  and  he  pointed  with  his  whip- 
lash—  "  over  that  crown  you'll  get  it." 

Straight  before  them  lifted  the  long  ridge  up  whose  sides 
they  had  been  winding,  with  green  turf-rim,  and  gray  boulders 
marking  the  sky-line  close  above,  that  should  widen  out  pres- 
ently with  a  burst  and  take  in  a  sweep  of  a  hundred  miles. 

Hope  was  looking  down,  and  along  her  side  the  Avay.  The 
blue  wild  geranium  grew  in  heaping  clusters  hard  by  where 
the  wheels  ran.  Along  a  mossy  old  fence  sprang  a  striped 
squirrel,  sitting  quizzically  upon  each  post  as  he  came  to  it, 
for  a  flash  of  time,  and  then  darting  on.  A  bobolink,  with 
his  pied  clown  costume  and  his  gay  chatter,  cracking  some 
bird-joke,  swung  up  and  down  on  a  last  year's  golden-rod, 
near  where  his  mate,  doubtless,  brooded  her  eggs.  All  these 
things  came  in  the  near  range  of  Hope's  vision,  and  the  sum- 
mer tenderness  and  bounty  held  them  all. 

"  Every  inch  of  it  is  beautiful,"  she  said,  answering  Richard 
Hathaway's  talk  of  three  counties.  "  See  there,  and  there, 
and  there ! " 

Richard  dropped  the  reins  upon-her  hands,  without  stopping 
the  horse,  and  sprang  out  over  the  wheel.  He  gathered  hand- 
fuls  of  blue  geraniums,  with  two  or  three  quick  clutches,  sprang 
in  again,  and  laid  them  in  her  lap. 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  141 

Hope  looked  up  and  thanked  him,  with  the  child-happiness 
brimming  in  her  face. 

"  You  make  the  most  of  it  all,  as  you  go,  Hope.  You  aint 
in  any  hurry  for  the  top." 

Hope  laughed.     "  That  would  be  botching,"  said  she. 

"Botching?" 

"  Yes  ;  as  the  little  children  do  their  patchwork.  Hurrying 
to  the  end  of  the  seam  and  not  minding  the  little  stitches. 
Then  the  whole  seam  is  good  for  nothing,  you  see." 

Richard  Hathaway  sat  still,  and  began  to  whistle.  It  put 
things  in  his  head.  Hope's  words  were  apt  to.  The  things 
in  his  head  were  not  words,  only  glimpses.  They  did  not 
come  often  to  what  he  could  utter  back.  But  they  were  there  ; 
glimpses  of  years,  now,  that  people  botched,  looking  for  ends 
and  new  openings,  and  missing  the  wayside  sufficiency  and 
joy.  Something  vaguely  reminded  him  of  Anstiss  Dolbeare, 
looking  for  things  beyond,  reaching  on,  with  a  pain,  and  a  far 
sight,  not  able  to  be  quite  content.  If  he  had  gathered  blue 
geraniums  for  her,  would  her  face  have  been  full,  like  Hope's? 

"  How  I  like  the  little  birch-trees !  "  Hope  exclaimed. 
"  Every  small  leaf  seems  so  glad.  The  others  are  in  great 
heaps,  grand  against  the  sky.  But  the  sunshine  and  the  wind 
get  in  all  around  every  one  of  these,  and  they  all  dance  and 
shine,  on  their  own  bits  of  stems." 

She  talked  on,  never  thinking  that  she  did  think,  or  that 
she  spoke.  The  current  of  beauty  ran  through  her  as  it  ran 
through  all.  Richard  said  nothing,  and  she  missed  nothing 
that  he  should  have  said.  Was  he  not  there,  also,  with/  it 
all? 

Hope  Devine  was  happy.  Her  blessed  temperament  was  in 
direct  line  and  relation  with  all  sweet  electric  influences. 
Richard  Hathaway  yearned  for  the  other  nature,  high  and  gen- 
tle and  tender  also,  but  sad  with  a  hard  repression,  restless 
with  unanswered  desire.  He  had  known  it  and  pitied  it,  so, 
all  through  his  life,  and  had  been  trying,  in  his  way,  to  make 
up  to  it  what  it  lacked.  And  he  knew  there  was  some- 
thing that  he  could  not  give  it ;  something  it  would  never 
be  quite  at  peace  without.  He  knew  it  all,  and  she  herself 


142  HITHERTO: 

knew  not  how  well  he  knew.  His  large  heart  was  full  of  a 
mute  understanding,  and  a  longing  for  himself  and  her.  And 
to  her  he  seemed  but  simple,  kind,  uncomprehending. 

This  was  the  Silent  Side. 

Going  on,  always,  along  with  her  own  life,  feeling  its  im- 
pulses, asking  the  same  questions,  humbly,  mutely ;  not  able 
to  turn  round  upon  her  from  a  height,  and  hold  down  strong 
hands  to  lift  her  up. 

When  do  we  lift  each  other  up.?  Must  we  gain  a  height 
first,  or  can  we  reach  up  our  feebleness  together  to  the  Hands 
that  do  offer  us  a  mighty  help  from  on  high? 

Counterparts?  Affinities?  "We  may  go  looking  for  them, 
and  we  may  chance,  some  of  us,  to  think  we  find  them ;  but 
the  tender  patience  of  human  souls  in  a  common  need  is  the 
true  affinity ;  and  God  has  given  humanity  its  one  Comple- 
ment in  his  Son. 

Austiss  Dolbeare  did  not  know ;  Richard  Hathaway  could 
not  tell ;  so  the  prose  of  her  life  went  on,  and  herein  a  silence 
covered  over  with  a  plain,  unfigured  living,  lay  the  syllables 
that  might  have  filled  the  measure  and  made  it  musical  with 
rhyme.  In  the  kingdom  of  heaven,  these  harmonies  utter 
themselves  all  the  while  that  we  are  ignorantly  jangling  and 
missing  them  here.  Some  time,  when  we  wake  to  them,  they 
shall  sweep  over  the  soul  in  tears. 

"  I  wish  we  had  Anstiss  Dolbeare  at  the  Farm  this  June 
weather,"  he  said  to  Hope,  who  knew  nothing  of  the  hidden 
links  that  joined  the  thought  of  her  with  what  they  had  been 
saying  of  the  birch  leaves,  and  the  blue  geraniums,  and  the 
wayside  pleasantness,  but  supposed  that  quite  a  new  subject 
had  suggested  itself  to  Richard.  Underground  currents  and 
apparent  gaps !  If  they  could  be  traced  and  bridged  with 
their  secret  continuities !  Histories  write  themselves  out  all 
around  us,  with  only  a  few  words  in  heart  cipher  here  and 
there,  that  we  cannot  read  to  make  them  plain. 

"  She  ought  to  be  here  to  go  strawberrying  on  Red  Hill," 
Hope  answered. 

Hope  was  as  true  as  she  was  strong.  She  had"  a  little  im- 
perceptible pause  with  herself  before  she  made  this  answer ; 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  143 

and,  making  it,  she  spoke  precisely  her  feelings,  and  no  more. 
It  was  not,  "  I  wish  so  too,"  or  "  Oh,  if  she  could  !  "  but "  She 
ought  to  be." 

And  yet  Hope  did  not  wish,  actually,  otherwise ;  Anstiss 
Dolbeare  had  been  many  a  time  at  the  Farm  since  the  day  that 
Hope  had  stood  on  the  wharf  at  New  Oxford,  and  Richard 
Hathaway  had  come,  for  her  to  take  her  away  into  her  new 
life,  and  felt  as  if  he  had  picked  up  a  sunbeam  ;  and  the  girls 
were  friends.  Real  friends ;  for  Anstiss  was  of  too  earnest 
and  seeking  a  nature,  and  Hope  too  frank  and  genuine,  for 
them  to  be  anything  at  all  to  each  other,  unless  this  ;  but 
somehow  Hope  felt  herself  at  hard  work  when  Anstiss  came 
and  stayed.  There  was  a  something  here  to  be  made  out, 
pieced  together,  "  made  to  go,"  that  was  worse  than  the  old 
carpet.  In  her  own  life,  Hope  could  deal  with  the  elements, 
and  see  her  way  through,  in  her  happy  fashion,  bit  by  bit, 
which  was  all  that  she  wanted ;  inert  material,  circumstance, 
fell  to  her  bright  will ;  but  here  was  the  antagonism  of  utterly 
different  temperament,  unabsorbent,  often,  of  the  sweet  cheer 
of  hers ;  unperceptive,  sometimes,  of  the  whole  good  that 
there  might  be  for  itself. 

Hope  did  not  know  just  what  it  was  ;  she  felt,  with  her  nice 
instinct,  that  there  was  a  something  to  be  adjusted  ;  and  as  if 
her  little  office  in  the  grand  economy  were  just  the  instant 
righting  of  all  the  atoms  about  her,  she  could  not  be  at  peace 
with  their  disturbed  polarity.  There  was  some  uncoinpre- 
hended  sense,  too,  of  dim  loss  and  trouble  to  herself;  in  her- 
self, rather  ;  she  was  too  unselfish  to  be  able  to  look  at  it  ob- 
jectively ;  but  the  full,  free  joy  of  her  life  got  a  little  stray 
ache  into  it  somehow,  she  could  not  tell  how ;  she  could 
scarcely  tell  where  she  felt  it.  Some  people  lose  and  suffer, 
even  unto  the  end,  without  knowing  anything,  but  that,  as 
Mrs.  Gradgrind  would  have  said,  "  there  was  a  pain  some- 
where" in  the  world,  and  it  might  be  possible  that  it  was 
theirs. 

At  nineteen,  all  the  strong,  unsatisfied  longings  of  the  child  had 
grown,  with  Anstiss  Dolbeare,  into  the  passionate  striving  and 
demand  of  the  woman's  nature.  And  the  old  life  was  round  her 


144  HITHERTO : 

still.  Its  contradictions,  its  half  opportunities,  its  withhold- 
ings,  its  snatcbings  away.  An  unseen  beauty  and  wealth  lay, 
as  well,  about  her  very  feet,  if  she  would  only  stoop  or  kneel 
to  find  it.  But  lifting  her  face  up  always  in  a  far-asking  and 
importunate  prayer,  she  set,  as  it  were,  her  tread  upon  it,  and 
passed  on  in  her  pain,  telling  herself,  always,  her  half  the 
story  ;  saying  over  the  old,  rough  lines  of  life,  unrecognizing 
their  hint  of  a  grand,  beautiful  measure,  and  calling  them 
hard  prose. 

Hope  had  a  vague  suggestion  in  herself  of  the  unfound 
rhymes.  Only  she  could  not  rhj'ine  for  another.  And  the 
strange  jangle  meddled  with  her  own  song. 

So  she  said  onty,  "  She  ought  to  be  here."  The  June  blessed- 
ness and  Anstiss  Dolbeare,  —  these  "  ought "  to  come  together. 
Ah,  the  old,  homely  proverb  about  the  horse  and  the  water! 
You  may  plunge  a  soul  into  heaven  itself,  and  the  pores  of 
its  being  may  be  closed  against  the  divine  ether. 

Anstiss  Dolbeare  was  stirred  and  kindled,  as  always,  by  all 
beautiful  things  ;  stirred,  but  not  satisfied  ;  only  reminded, 
continually,  of  that  which  might  be  and  was  not.  Spiritual 
far-sight  was  her  disease.  Just  a  touch  of  nryopy  is  a  safer 
and  a  happier  thing.  That  cures  as  one  grows  old  ;  the  other 
aggravates  as  the  lenses  flatten,  till  the  lines  of  light  fall  wide, 
and  there  is  blankness.  , 

"  We'll  ask  her  out ;  we'll  go  for  her  in  the  new  wagon  with 
Swallow,  —  you  and  I."  Richard  almost  always  drew  Hope  in- 
to such  plans,  in  these  days  ;  he  was  shy  of  asking  Anstiss,  us 
he  used  to,  to  go  off  with  him  alone. 

He  stopped  the  horse  on  the  top  of  Pitch  Hill,  as  he  spoke  ; 
a  swift  afternoon  breeze  met  them,  and  passed  them  by  over 
the  brow ;  all  the  rich  breath  of  the  fields  and  forests  and 
gardens  was  in  it,  borne  up  here  out  of  a  wide  champaign 
over  which  summer  was  bursting,  and  sunlight  had  brooded 
warm  for  hours. 

It  smote  upon  every  sense,  that  magnificent  outspread ; 
such  a  great  piece  of  the  beautiful  earth  at  once  ;  and  such  a 
depth  and  width  and  glory  of  heaven  reaching  up  above,  and 
gently  down  round  about  it ! 


*  A    STOKY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  145 

Forests  and  river-glimpses;  still,  blue  ponds  lying  in  beauti- 
ful curves ;  spires  white  and  slender,  pointing  only  a  little 
way,  after  all,  like  a  child's  finger,  into  the  fathomless  ;  houses 
gathered  together,  here  and  there,  a  tiny  sprinkle  of  human 
life  in  the  midst  of  the  wide,  rioting,  redundant  lesser  life  that 
feeds  it ;  road-ways  winding  everywhere  along  the  hill-sides 
and  across  intervales,  losing  themselves  in  green  shadows  and 
down  valley-hollows ;  no  entire  track  traceable  straight 
through  to  anywhere,  but  bends  and  stretches  and  bits  gleam- 
ing out  indicatively ;  with  now  and  then  a  wagon  laboring 
along,  or  a  swifter  vehicle  rolling  across  the  open,  visible  a 
little  way  and  then  covered  in  again.  Cattle  in  soft-sloping 
pastures  ;  birds  traversing  the  blue  air  ;  a  crow  slow-flapping, 
low,  over  a  corn-field ;  sounds  of  mingled  songs  and  hums  and 
rustlings  and  rippliugs  coming  up  from  all  in  a  pleasant  far- 
off,  nameless  stir. 

Hope,  who  could  take  in  so  blessedly  the  little  and  close, 
could  seize,  with  such  a  burst  as  this,  the  width  and  grandeur 
of  its  suggestion. 

"  O  Richard  !  "  she  cried  out,  simply.  "  Just  think  of  the 
whole  of  it !  Going  all  round  and  round  the  world  !  " 

She  took  the  globe  in  her  hands  for  an  instant,  mentally ; 
faintly  feeling  the  grand  idea  of  it,  and  receiving  a  far-away 
rapturous  reflection  of  the  Greatness  that  "  taketh  up  the  isles 
as  a  very  little  thing." 

"  Some  of  it  is  water,"  said  Richard,  in  his  homely,  practi- 
cal way,  half  quietly  comical  in  intention. 

"  Yes,"  said  Hope,  just  as  literal,  and  despising  nothing, 
but  getting  the  further  inspiration  out  of  all.  "  And  ships, 
and  islands,  and  icebergs,  and  storms !  And  then  countries 
again,  and  people !  " 

Why  could  not  Richard,  catching  her  large  yet  simple 
thought,  that  enlarged  his  own,  so  that  even  his  clumsiness 
helped,  not  hindered  it,  have  seen  too  how  this  girl's  nature 
fitted  his,  and  how  sufficiently  each  to  the  other  they  rounded 
and  satisfied  and  poised  themselves  in  a  perfect  rest  and  peace 
together  ? 

"  You'd  like  to  see  the  world,  Hope  1  " 
10 


146  HITHERTO: 

"  Why,  yes,"  she  said,  slowly,  coming  back,  as  it  were, 
to  the  recollection  that  it  was  not  all  open,  actual,  instant 
vision.  "But  then,"  returning  to  her  first  insight  and  joy, 
"  I  do  see  it ;  my  piece  of  it,  you  know ;  and  that's  all  that 
anybody  sees,  at  once.  For  the  rest  of  it,  you  have  to  shut 
your  eyes." 

Still,  as  in  the  childish  days,  she  could  "  shut  her  eyes  and 
be  there."  I  do  not  know  that  I  can  tell  you  of  such  a 
character  as  Hope  Devine's  without  seeming  to  make  it  con- 
tradict itself.  Such  small  content,  and  such  large  grasp  ;  but 
they  were  there  ;  and  I  think  they  are  the  clear  reflection  in 
-a  healthy  human  soul  of  That  which  weighs  the  dust  of  the 
earth  in  a  balance,  and  spreads  out  the  clouds  as  curtains  ; 
that  peoples  the  water-drop  with  infinite  life  and  walks  with 
its  archangels  among  the  stars. 

They  came  winding  slowly  down,  the  whole  way,  into 
Longmead  ;  and  Richard  cut  an  ash-branch  and  fastened  it  at 
the  wagon-side  to  shield  Hope  from  the  western  sun,  and 
asked  her  little  questions  about  her  comfort,  and  cared  for  her 
all  along  as  he  cared  for  everything  that  was  in  his  hands  ;  and 
Hope  was  so  happy  with  his  kindness,  and  with  the  beautiful 
day,  and  the  life  and  the  light  and  the  music  and  the  odors  of 
it,  and  the  thoughts  that  were  things,  that  it  never  occurred 
to  her  to  be  troubled  lest  all  this  were  not  with  Richard,  too, 
in  like  manner,  or  beyond,  what  it  was  with  her.  Of  course 
it  was.  Had  he  not  brought  her  here  on  purpose  ? 

They  went  round  through  the  valleys,  coming  back ;  Pitch 
Hill  was  too  much  of  an  experiment  with  Swallow,  and  old 
Putterkoo  was  glad  of  the  soft  brown  soil  of  the  low  land 
.  under  her  hoofs,  after  the  cling  and  scramble  among  the 
rough  stones  and  the  hot  gravel  of  the  water-washed  and 
sun-blazed  road  of  the  heights. 

They  skimmed  along,  with  the  swift  fresh  horse,  and  Put- 
terkoo got  her  old  mettle  up,  following,  with  no  weight  to 
carry  ;  her  white  nose  was  cosily  over  the  wagon-back  behind 
their  shoulders.  Under  the  cool  willows  beside  the  running 
water  ;  in  the  air  damp  and  sweet  with  the  meadow  moistures  ; 
with  the  light  of  the  low  sun  touching  and  tinging  all  things 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  147 

sidewise,  and  the  lowing  of  cattle  at  their  yard-bars,  and  the 
faint  chitter  of  birds  settling  to  their  nests  foretelling  and 
forefeeling  stillness  and  rest  after  the  long  summer-day  of 
life  and  labor. 

Hope  thought  of  this  ride  years  after,  when  things  had  hap- 
pened that  she  dated  from  that  night. 

Into  the  wide,  shady  village  street  of  Broadfields,  and  by 
the  church  green ;  down  past  the  thinning  dwellings,  out  be- 
tween open  grounds  again  ;  over  the  brook  and  through  the 
edge  of  woods  that  lay  across  the  road,  and  up  again  to  the 
cheery  house-yard  and  the  door  wide  open  to  the  sunset. 

Anstiss  Dolbeare  in  a  white  cambric  gown,  and  a  black  silk 
mantle,  sat  beside  Mrs.  Hathaway  on  the  oaken  sill.  From 
her  fair  hair  gathered  back  in  soft  curves  from  her  forehead, 
and  around  the  head  set  with  a  peculiar  grace  upon  the  shoul- 
ders, down  to  the  little  foot  that  lay  in  a  close,  laced  black 
morocco  shoe  upon  the  great  granite  doorstone,  she  was  "  a 
lady,  every  inch,"  as  the  people  say.  Sweet,  still,  refined  ; 
the  eager  nature  burning  only  in  the  deep  gray  eyes  that  with 
their  strai^fct,  dark  line  of  brow  and  the  defining  of  close 
lashes,  also  dark,  made  a  singular  combination  with  the  soft 
shade  of  the  brown  hair. 

She  sat  there  with  his  mother,  waiting,  while  Richard  drove 
up.  Hope  felt  him  give  a  little  start,  seeing  her  at  the  first 
as  they  turned  in  from  the  road  ;  and  the  throb  that  sprang 
out  of  his  heart  shot  a  winding  vein  into  relief  upon  his  tem- 
ple, and  there  wasf  a  sudden  glow  out  of  his  eyes.  This  is 
the  way  a  strong  man  blushes ;  and  it  means,  with  all  the 
added  force  of  the  man's  nature,  what  a  woman  means  when 
she  flushes  like  a  rose. 

"  I  have  come  here  for  a  rest,"  said  Anstiss  Dolbeare, 
standing  up  and  reaching  out  her  hand  to  him. 

Richard  Hathaway  held  his  young  horse  with  one  hand  by 
the  bridle,  and  grasped  hers  with  the  other. 

"  We're  right  down  glad  to  see  you,  Anstiss,"  was  the 
young  farmer's  hearty,  common  speech. 

What  could  he  say,  but  after  this,  his  fashion?  He  was 
too  much  a  man  to  stand  and  blush  there ;  he  gave  her  the 


148  HITHERTO : 

quick,  generous  welcome  that  he  always  had  for  her ;  ht  blun- 
dered, perhaps,  into  one  of  his  most  rustic  expressions,  just 
because  he  would  so  carefully  have  chosen  the  most  beautiful 
words  if  he  could,  and  while  his  brain  sought  them  in  a  sud- 
den tumult,  his  lips  spoke  something  that  came  without  a 
thought. 

For  the  remainder,  it  kept  silence ;  but  he  heard  his  own 
heart  beating  in  his  ears. 

There  was  no  tingle  in  Anstiss  Dolbeare's  nerves,  and  the 
blood  in  her  veins  ran  calm.  So  how  should  she  catch  the 
sound  of  the  tempest  that  only  came  to  him  ?  She  heard  the 
evening  wind  in  the  long  elm-boughs,  and  she  thought  how 
still  it  was,  and  how-  she  should  find  here  the  rest  she  had 
come  for. 

Hope  sprang  down,  while  Eichard  stood  there  with  both 
hands  busy. 

"Why  did  you  do  that?"  he  asked.  "I  was  coming  to 
help  you." 

"  Oh,  I  can  help  myself,"  she  answered,  brightly ;  and  then 
she  kissed  Anstiss,  and  the  two  girls  went  in  together. 


A  STORY  OF  YESTERDAYS.  149 


CHAPTER  XII. 

BLANK   VERSE  ;    AND   CLOVER. 
THE   SILENT  SIDE. 

THE  third  perception  and  the  voice  must  still  read  on,  and 
tell  a  little  of  that  which  came  next  in  the  story  of  these  lives 
that  learned  their  own  story  in  separate 'halves. 

And  whence,  by  the  way,  arrives  that  intuition  that  we  are 
all  conscious  of  while  our  fragmentary  experience  runs  on, 
and  we  feel  how  little  we  are  comprehended  and  how  little  we 
comprehend,  and  how  small  the  time,  and  how  poor  the 
power  to  explain  or  to  make  clear,  —  of  a  something  outside 
of  us  that  puts  together  the  pieces  ;  before  which  we  justify 
ourselves,  and  finish  word  and  deed  that  were  broken  off  and 
prevented,  take  back  the  thing  unmeant,  and  turn  our  whole 
selves  toward  a  new  light  that  shows  us  other  than  the  world 
sees  ?  In  the  sense  of  which  we  find  dim  consolation,  reas- 
surance, hope? 

Side  by  side  with  this  unknown  apprehension,  identifying 
himself,  however  humbly,  with  it,  must  the  dealer  with 
thought  and  life  that  might  be  or  that  may  have  been,  put 
himself,  and  look,  and  listen.  For  that  apprehension  is,  if  in 
One  only ;  it  is  the  relation  God  himself  holds  to  every  human 
soul.  It  is  no  light  thing,  then,  but  a  solemn,  to  make  one's 
self  an  insight  and  a  voice,  to  see  and  to  tell  such  things. 
As  Hope  Devine  said  in  her  fanciful  childhood,  who  knows  if 
"  we  can  see  anything  that  isn't  there  ?  "  • 

Hope  and  Anstiss  slept  together.  Anstiss  liked  this  when 
she  stayed  at  the  Farm  ;  it  gave  less  trouble,  and  Hope  was  a 
a  part  of  the  rest  for  which  she  came.  She  leaned  upon  her 
strength,  instinctively ;  she  got  the  help,  the  comfort ;  Hope, 


150  .     HITHERTO: 

giving  it,  and  because  she  gave  it  heartily,  felt  the  strain,  as 
we  have  seen. 

So  they  sat  and  talked,  as  girls  do,  on  their  bedside  ;  pull- 
ing the  combs  and  pins  out  of  their  hair,  and  loosening  their 
garments ;  putting  off  the  real  undressing,  the  brushing  and 
the  pinning  up  ;  when  they  began  to  do  this  they  would  begin 
to  pin  themselves  up  again  into  their  individuality,  also  ;  it  is 
this  unbending  from  the  outer  restraints  that  has  much  to  do 
with  the  setting  free  of  confidence. 

"  I  can't  tell  what  it  is  that  Aunt  Ildy  wants,"  said  Anstiss, 
hanging  hairpins  carefully  one  by  one  over  the  teeth  of  the 
shell  comb  she  held  horizontally,  as  if  that  were  precisely  the 
important  thing  in  the  world  to  be  done,  and  the  doing  it  was 
what  puzzled  her.  "  I  think  she  is  fond  of  me  in  her  way, 
and  would  rather  I  should  come  to  good  than  otherwise  ;  and 
yet  she  has  thought  it  her  duty  for  so  many  years  to  prevent 
me  from  having  my  want  or  my  way  in  anything,  that  she 
can't  keep  her  hands  off  now.  She's  proud  to  have  me 
noticed  ;  she  sets  it  all  down  to  the  Chisms  ;  she  gets  her  best 
china  out,  and  asks  Allard  Cope  to  stay  to  tea,  and  then  she 
snubs  him  by  way  of  taking  me  down,  when  he  talks  to  me  ; 
for  fear  I  shall  feel  of  consequence,  and  it  shouldn't  be  good 
for  me  ;  and  she  tells  me  the  next  day  that  it  all  means  noth- 
ing ;  I  needn't  imagine  it  does ;  he  hasn't  many  other  places 
about  here  to  go  to,  and  he's  got  a  way  of  dropping  in  to  talk 
to  Uncle  Roj'le.  And  then  again,  if  he  stays  away,  she  hints 
something  about  off  and  on,  and  that  nothing  of  that  sort  will 
answer  with  the  Chisms,  and  she  should  think  it  was  my  busi- 
ness to  understand  what  he  was  about,  and  my  own  mind,  and 
to  give  him  to  know  one  thing  or  the  other;,  but  then  she 
never  did  suppose  there  was  anything  in  it ;  and  it  always 
sounds  like  '  How  should  there  be  ? '  and  a  kind  of  taunt  flung 
at  me.  I  feel  sometimes  as  if  I  could  do  anything  to  get  out 
of  such  a  life,  and^o  show  Aunt  Ildy  —  Oh,  I'm  disgusted 
with  it  all !  I  can't  have  a  friend,  nor  a  pleasantness  ;  and 
she  tires  me,  —  she  tires  me  so,  Hope  !  " 

There  was  a  life-long  weariness  in  Anstiss'  voice ;  and  it 
dropped  away,  and  she  ended,  as  if  so  she  gave  all  up,  and 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  151 


DA) 


would  let  it  fall  away  from  her  if  she  could,  only  that  it  still 
clung  and  dragged. 

This  wasapvhat  tired  Hope  too. 

But  when  she  could  not  just  see  the  beginning  of  a  righting, 
she  insisted  upon  the  end  that  was  to  be. 

"  It  will  all  come  out,  somehow.  It  has  got  to,  you  know. 
Things  always  do.  They  can't  stay  up  in  arms." 

That  was  how  she  felt  with  an  old  carpet  that  lay  in  a  heap, 
or  a  dress  ripped  up  into  pieces. 

"If  you  care,  yourself — "and  here  she  stopped.  Hope 
would  by  no  means  ask  for  the  most  intimate  confidence  of  all. 

"  I  don't  know.  Sometimes  I  think  I  don't  care  for  any- 
thing. How  can  I  tell  how  things  might  be  ?  They  have  no 
business  to  be  p"ut  into  my  head,  beforehand.  I'm  ashamed  ; 
ashamed  of  being  a  woman,  Hope  Devine,  and  of  having  it 
thought  that  I  am  standing  ready  to  be  asked !  " 

She  spoke  impetuously,  bitterly ;  wronged  in  her  most 
sacred  reserve,  and  driven  to  speak  of  what  she  would  not 
have  allowed  herself  to  know,  until  another,  who  should  have 
the  right,  should  have  come  to  her  and  bid  her  search,  to  give 
him  answer. 

"  She  spoils  it  all,  whatever  it  might  be.  She  would  make 
it  a  cheat,  even  if  it  might  have  been  the  truth.  I  never 
wanted  anybody  to  come  and  say  '  You  are  going  to  have  some- 
thing given  you,'  even  if  they  knew.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  stolen 
and  used  and  defaced  it  secretly,  before  the  time,  and  as  if  my 
thanks  would  be  hypocrisy,  because  that  I  had  helped  myself 
already,  I  have  come  here  to  get  away,  and  to  have  a  rest." 

"  Well,  we'll  rest  you.  That  is  the  best  thing.  It's  good 
to'  put  a  bother  away  over  night.  It  all  straightens  out  in  the 
morning." 

"  I  wish  I  belonged  here.  Or  at  the  Copes.  Anywhere  that 
I  could  just  be.  Then  I  suppose  I  should  live  my  life,  what- 
ever it  was.  But  Aunt  Ildy  pokes  at  my  roots  so." 

"People  can't  do,  after  all,  anything  except  what  they're 
set  to.  Make  it  out,  I  mean,  unless  it  is  meant.  It's  the 
transplanting  that  is  to  come  next,  maybe,  for  you,  and  then, 
you  see^you'll  flourish !  " 


152  HITHERTO: 

Hope  did  not  begin  to  say  this  until  she  had  waited,  in  a 
half-troubled  silence,  for  a  minute  or  two.  Then  it  came,  and 
she  brightened  up,  and  gave  it  right  out  in  her  peg^liar  quick 
fashion  ;  quite  sure  of  it,  as  if  she  had  thought  it  over  and 
over,  long  ago,  and  proved  it  by  a  full  experience.  She  ended 
with  a  little  jubilance ;  and  her  face  turned  up  at  Austiss,  sud- 
denly, with  a  light  in  it  like  an  ecstasy  of  promise. 

"  Your  face  is  like  a  sky-full  of  stars  when  you  look  so, 
Hope,"  said  Anstiss. 

Hope  laughed.     "  That's  poetry,"  said  she. 

"  You  made  it,  if  it  is,"  said  Anstiss. 

"  Well,  perhaps,"  Hope  rejoined,  merrily.  "  It  don't  take 
much  to  make  poetry,  after  all.  "Why,  everything  is  poetry  ! " 

"  Blank  verse,  a  good  deal  of  it,"  the  other  answered,  fall- 
ing back  into  her  weary  way. 

"  Blank  verse?" 

"  Yes  ;  the  verse  without  a  rhyme  ;  long,  heavy  lines,  just 
doled  out  in  a  measure,  and  every  one  beginning  with  a  capital 
letter,  just  to  make  you  catch  your  breath  and  think  you're 
going  to  begin  again." 

"  Why,  that's  like  *  Paradise  Lost.'  That's  what  the  hero- 
stories  are  told  in  !  " 

"  I'm  afraid  I'm  not  heroic,"  said  Anstiss.  "  And  I'd  as 
lief  my  life  wouldn't  try  to  be  an  epic." 

"  Anstiss,  dear,  I'd  read  it,  and  make  it  grand,  whatever  it 
is  !  I  wouldn't  skip,  either.  It  all  belongs  ;  and  the  coming 
out'll  be  splendid  I  It  always  is  you  know." 

"  I  don't  know.  Half  the  time  they're  all  killed  off  at  the 
end,  aren't  they  ?  " 

"  Well !  "  said  Hope,  in  her  very  cheeriest  tone. 

"Well?"  repeated  Anstiss,  half  angrily. 

"  Then  you  do  begin  again,  don't  you  ?  And  then  — "  a  sort 
of  glorious  earnestness  came  into  her  shining  eyes, —  "  there's 
the  hero-story  —  finished  !  " 

That  word  of  hers  silenced  them  in  a  strange,  unlooked-for 
way.  Thej  had  touched  on  unexpected  depths  in  their  talk, 
begun  in  mere  girl-fashion.  Perhaps  there  came  a  thought  of 


A    STORY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  153 

the  world's  great  Hero-story ;  of  Him  who  bore   its   utmost 
strain  and  agony,  and  said  that  of  it,  —  It  is  finished ! 

They  left  off  talking ;  they  put  awa'y  their  things  and  rolled 
up  their  hair.  Anstiss  went  and  looked  out  at  the  window,  in 
a  stillness,  for  some  minutes ;  Hope  went  straight  and  simply 
to  the  bedside,  in  her  white  night-dress,  and  knelt  down. 
After  that,  they  kissed  each  other,  and  got  into  bed,  and  the 
room  was  still. 

Richard  set  the  blinds  open  and  drew  the  curtains  wide  in 
his  east  windows,  before  he  went  to  sleep  that  night.  He 
meant  to  be  up  in  the  early  morning  and  off  to  Red  Hill,  to 
see  if  strawberries  were  ripe.  So  he  got  his  three-mile  walk, 
and  his  certainty  ;  finding  the  wild  fruit  lying  in  patient  per- 
fectuess  under  its  green  leaves,  on  the  far-off  slope,  doing  its 
best  with  flashing  crimson  and  rich  perfume  to  advertise  fairly 
that  it  was  there  ;  and  he  brought  back  his  news,  and  his  sturdy 
appetite  and  sound  cheeriness  of  temper,  to  his  mother's  plen- 
tiful breakfast,  and  the  whole  room  and  everything  there  was 
pleasanter  from  the  minute  he  came  in. 

Here  was  not  a  man  to  hang  about  in  a  listless  love,  capa- 
ble of  but  one  weak  thing  ;  he  would  be  out  on  his  farm  pres- 
ently, among  his  men  and  his  oxen,  and  the  smell  of  brown 
earth  would  be  in  his  nostrils,  and  the  sunlight  penetrating 
him  through  and  through,  filling  him  with  hearty  vitality  and 
grand  manly  power ;  and  whatever  was  in  him  would  be  ex- 
panding itself  to  the  great  round  of  a  far,  breezy  horizon,  and 
growing  pure  and  clear  under  the  searchiag  light  and  sifting 
winds  of  the  full,  wide  out-of-doors  that  he  lived  and  wrought 
in?  Something  healthy,  and  strong,  and  worth  having  comes 
to  a  woman  out  of  a  heart  like  his,  fed  out  of  a  nature  and  a 
life  like  that.  A  great  brain  and  great  book-feeding  may  be 
fine  things  ;  they  are  ;  but  alone,  away  from  other  feeding, 
they%re  the  poorer  of  the  two.  There  is  great  meaning  in  that 
word  —  "heartiness."  The  soul  does  not  lie  in  a  point ;  it 
fills  the  whole  human  creature.  A  child,  or  a  complete, 
healthful  man  or  woman,  will  lay  the  hand  on  the  breathing 
bosom  to  express  its  being  and  its  feeling ;  it  is  large  and 


154  HITHERTO: 

palpitant  there,  and  thence  it  thrills  to  the  very  finger-ends ; 
one  with  only  a  brain  and  a  marrow  will  be  aware  but  of  a 
buzzing  and  a  spinning  in  the  skull..  A  bee  in  the  bonnet, 
oftentimes,  as  likely  as  not. 

It  was  a  whole-hearted  man  who,  as  we  know  now,  loved 
Anstiss  Dolbeare. 

For  her,  she  got  up  this  morning  into  a  new,  free,  joyous 
existence.  She  had  slept  off  the  weariness  of  her  latest 
vexations,  and  no  real  passion,  or  suffering,  or  life-questioning 
had  as  yet  laid  such  vital  hold  of  her  that  it  coujd  filter  itself 
through  her  rest  and  her  dreams,  and  tincture  her  new  day. 

She  "  began  again  "  at  Broadfields,  always  ;  here  it  seemed, 
somehow,  as  if  the  sun  itself  had  never  risen  before,  but  had 
just  been  made. 

She  came  downstairs,  singing ;  she  was  full  of  a  readiness 
to  receive  blessedly ;  the  old  life  was  all  behind  the  night, 
thrust  and. huddled  away  there,  like  a  last  year's  garment 
which  one  ma}'  never  want  again.  She  was  glad  when  Rich- 
ard told  them  of  the  strawberry  plenty  ;  they  would  go  in  the 
cool  of  the  afternoon  ;  she  felt  as  if  she  could  pick  a  bushel. 

Hope  almost  wondered  at  her.  She  herself  never  had  such 
ups  and  downs  ;  she  rested  in  a  clear  mid-atmosphere,  poised 
on  constant  wings  of  a  strong,  blithe  confidence.  But  she  was 
glad  for  Anstiss  that  she  could  sing  so. 

Everything  was  satisfying ;  everything  was  amusing ;  she 
was  ready  to  work  and  to  plan  pleasure ;  to  sing  and  to 
laugh. 

All  that  happened  touched  some  spring. 

She  came  running  to  Hope  in  the  back  kitchen  where  she 
was  hanging  up  her  tin  pans. 

"  There's  such  a  woman  in  the  sitting-room  !  — Who  is  she, 
Hope  ?  —  saying  something  to  Mrs.  Hathaway  about  a  pasture 
and  a  fence.  Her  nose  is  six  inches  long,  and  her  mouth  is 
under  her  chin,  and  she  talks  with  her  elbows !  Putff  the 
stops,  I  mean,  and  the  italics,  and  the  dashes,  —  so ! 
'  Lay  in'  consider'ble  butter  down  this  June,  Miss  Hathaway  ? ' ': 
and  Anstiss  jerked  one  elbow  up  towards  Hope's  face, — "  that's 
the  butter,  and  the  interrogation  point.  '  You're  a  master 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  155 

hand  at  dairy-work  —  allus  was  ! ' '  Poking  sidewise  at  her 
with  the  other,  and  turning  the  end  of  the  poke  up  in  the  air, — 
"that's  emphasis,  and  exclamation.  And  so  she  goes  on. 
'  Hired  gals  precious  little  account,  hey  ? ' —  with  a  dash  back- 
ward—  I  can'i  do  it  —  for  the  '  precious,'  and  a  flourish  round 
into  her  side  again  for  the  '  hey  ! '  Why,  who  ever  saw  such 
a  woman  ?  Where  does  she  come  from  ?  " 

"  From  Red  Hill  way,"  said  Hope.  "  If  we  stop  at  her  house 
to-night  she'll  give  us  spruce  beer  that  she  makes  herself,  with 
all  sorts  of  woods-flavors  in  it.  She  lives  all  alone  there,  ex- 
cept when  she  goes  away  sometimes  to  nurse  sick  people." 

"  We'll  stop  then.  I  should  like  the  beer ;  but  it  can't  be 
equal  to  the  elbows.  I  must  go  back.  Can't  lose  it,  you  see  !  " 
And  Anstiss  put  her  head  down  till  she  seemed  to  talk  from 
under  her  chin,  and  leaned  toward  Hope,  nodding  and  thrust- 
ing up  her  elbow  at  her  again  with  a  nudge  and  a  sweep  that 
expressed  italics  and  admirations,  and  a  dozen  unspoken 
words  in  parenthesis.  k'  It's  the  greatest  fun  I  ever  saw." 

Hope  thought  how  things  must  have  chafed  upon  a  nature 
that  could  be  merry  like  this,  before  they  could  make  it  bitter, 
and  hopeless,  and  sad,  like  last  night ;  and  she  caught,  too,  a 
glimpse  of  the  truth,  that  as  yet  it  was  purely  outside  chafing  ; 
the  inmost  vitality  was  safe,  and  might  yet  leap  out  and  rejoice. 
So  she  spread  her  clean  kitchen  towels  on  the  line  in  the  sun, 
and  began  to  sing  too. 

"  If  she  can  just  be  let  alone,"  she  thought,  "  and  have 
things  come  to  her." 

They  drove  over  to  the  foot  of  Bed  Hill  in  the  open  wagon, 
that  afternoon ;  let  down  some  pasture  bars,  and  followed  a 
cart-track  over  the  short,  dry,  mossy  turf,  till,  down  a  little 
bend  between  the  roots  of  the  great  land-swell,  they  came  into 
a  shade  of  oaks  and  upon  one  of  those  little  old  farm-houses, 
black  with  unpainted  age,  having  a  one  story  upright  in  front 
and  a  long  stretch  of  roof  behind  that  a  child  could  run  up  and 
down  on,  descending  gently  from  the  ridge-pole  till  it  almost 
kissed  the  ground.  Under  a  roof  like  that,  one  thought  of  a 
family  of  children  as  of  chickens  brooded  under  a  wing. 

Up  to  the  very  door-sill  grew  the  short,  green  grass ;  and 


156  HITHERTO: 

lilac-bushes  peeped  round  the  corners  and  looked  ia  at  the 
windows.  There  was  a  hop-vine  growing  up  ene  frame-post, 
and  swinging  its  tender  budding  sprays  of  delicate  green,  and 
spreading  its  dark,  rich  leafage  all  along  eaves  and  rafters 
and  down  against  the  old  shingled  sides  like  a  tapestry. 

"  This  is  Mrs.  Cryke's,"  said  Hope,  and  Richard  pulled  up 
the  horse  at  the  doorway. 

"  I  knew  what  you'd  corne  for,"  sounded,  almost  before  they 
saw ;  "  wait  half  a  minute  ;  "  and  with  this  they  perceived  the 
elbow  first,  coming  out  at  them  like  a  great  caret,  while  Mrs. 
Cryke  poured  foaming  beer  out  of  a  full  pitcher,  as  if  she 
knew  what  had  been  left  out  of  their  pleasure  so  far,  and  was 
interlining  it. 

"  I  knew  you  couldn't  get  such  beer  nowhere  else.  There, 
drink  that;  and  aint  it  smackin'  goofl?" 

Between  pitcher  and  mug,  and  question  marks,  and  marks 
of  emphasis,  both  elbows  were  by  this  time  working  won- 
drously,  and  good  Mrs.  Cryke  was  like  the  wooden  man  with 
the  flails  on  the  weather-vane  over  Richard  Hathaway's  barn. 

"  It's  like  pine  woods  and  fern-pastures  and  swamp  pinks 
and  everything !  "  cried  Anstiss,  giving  back  the  mug. 

"  It's  got  everything  in  it ;  everything  that's  good,  and  that 
grows,  —  almost!"  and  the  mug  was  full  again,  though  how, 
goodness  knows,  for  there  was  a  nudge  and  a  chuckle,  and  all 
the  accents,  and  the  whole  play  and  tone  of  gratified  expres- 
sion between  those  elbows  and  the  things  the  hands  held, 
while  she  did  it.  A  compliment  fairly  set  the  old  lady  flying. 

"  Well,  here  are  some  early  marrow-fats  that  have  got  the 
best  of  my  field  in  'em,"  said  Richard  Hathaway,  pulling  a 
bag  from  under  the  seat,  when  they  had  all  drunk  of  the 
mountain  essence.  And  if  there's  anything  they  haven't  got 
that  they  ought  to  have,  you'll  boil  it  into  'em,  somehow." 
And  he  tossed  it  out  upon  the  grass. 

"Well,  I'm  beholden  to  ye,  I'm  sure!  You  never  come 
empty-handed  ;  it's  give  and  take,  to  treat  you;  and  the  take's 
the  biggest,  by  all  odds  ! ! " 

The  way  she  edged  nearer  and  got  among  the  wheels,  and 
reached  up  and  illustrated,  and  pointed,  and  put  double  ex- 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  157 

clamations  at  the  end,  would  have  been  dangerous  to  those 
active  old  bo^es  of  hers  with  any  horse  but  Putterkoo  in  the 
shafts,  or  driver  less  watchful  than  Richard  at  the  reins.  But 
they  got  off  safely,  and  left  her  vibrating  and  punctuating,  and 
calling  out  after  them  with  a  great  Nota  Bene  prefix*  to  her 
supplementary  suggestion : — 

"You  stop  as  you  come  back  along,  mind!  You'll  be 
thirsty  agin,  then  !  And  there's  more  where  that  came  from  !  " 

"  She  lives  there  all  alone,"  said  Richard,  "  since  her  brother 

died ;  except  when  she's  nursing.     And  she  gives  away  her 

beer,  and  people  come  miles  for  it  in  the  hot  weather ;  and  she 

gets  the  best  of  the  farming  for  her  brewing ;  there's  some- 

•  thing  grow.ing  for  her  in  everybody's  lot." 

"  All  alone?"  repeated  Anstiss.  "  "What  if  she  should  be 
sick  herself  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  won't.  She  may  die,  some  time  ;  I  suppose  she'll 
have  to ;  but  she  never'll  be  sick.  And  if  she  should,  she's 
got  a  cat  that  knows  enough  to  go  for  the  doctor." 

How  the  breeze,  and  the  sunshine,  and  the  fragrance  stirred 
together  and  poured  down,  a'nd  up  and  around  them !  How 
the  moss  crushed  pleasantly  under  the  wheels,  and  the  yellow 
butterflies  and  the  little  brown  ones  that  look  as  if  they'd 
kept  their  winter  gowns  on,  swarmed  among  the  blossoming 
weeds,  and  how  they  smelled  the  strawberry  patches  afar  off! 
How  happy  it  was  to  be  here  with  Richard  and  Hope,  and  old 
Putterkoo,  a,nd  the  peace  and  overflowing  of  the  summer ! 
How  safe  Anstiss  felt,  and  how  ^10  rested,  and  took  in  many 
things  that  she  could  get  nowhere  'else,  as  well  as  Mrs.  Cryke's 
beer ! 

What  would  she  give  for  them  ?  Out  of  her  life  what  had 
she  grown  and  brought  ^jfk  her  of  her  best,  to  render  back  ? 
Will  he  ask  her,  some  time  ?  Ask  her,  offering  her  more  ;  all 
of  this,  and  greater,  for  her  whole  life  long  ?  And  will  it  be 
enough  ?  * 

He  will  not  be  in  a  hurry ;  nobody  will  be  in  a  hurry,  here, 
"  to  put  things  in  her  head  ;  "  he  will  not  search  for  words,  or 
for  a  time,  to  speak ;  he  has  been  silent  a  long  while  ;  by  and 
by  it  will  speak  itself,  perhaps,  when  he  cannot  help  it ;  in 


158  HITHERTO : 

some  common,  unpolished,  unstudied  word  it  -will  come  at  last, 
but  with  a  great  heart-burst  behind  it  that  shalljihrust  it  forth. 
And  it  will  fall  as  at  her  feet.  Will  she  take  it  up  and  care 
for  it?  In  the  great,  full  world  of  powers,  and  knowledges, 
and  possible  JO3TS  and  satisfyings,  to  what  is  she  secretly  reach- 
ing ?  What  is  at  the  spring-head  of  her  restlessness  that  she 
as  yet  but  half  knows,  herself?  Will  she  ever  learn  how  it  is 
that  not  always  beyond  the  stars,  or  beneath  the  deeps,  are 
the  answers  to  life's  dearest  askings,  but  that  the  word  and 
the  gift  are  nigh,  even  in  the  mouth  and  the  heart  that  are 
thirsting  and  beseeching  ? 

The}'  left  the  horse  under  shady  oaks,  and  walked  on  into 
open  pastures.  Through  a  great  patch  of  odorous  sweet  fern 
that  gave  out  its  spicy  breath  as  they  passed  across  it,  and 
then  upon  a  close  turf  again,  overlaced  everywhere  with  wild 
strawberry-vines,  and  its  pattern  pronounced  with  bright  red 
clusters  of  ripe  fruit,  making  a  hill-side  carpet  of  wonderful 
wild  beauty. 

"  Fruit  right  off  the  vines,"  in  a  garden  even,  is  an  approach 
to  perfection ;  but  out  of  an  abundance  like  this,  free  and  ex- 
haustless,  it  is  more  ;  we  find  out  then,  a  part  of  the  secret 
that  we  had  not  thought  of  before  ;  it  is  not  freshness,  merely  ; 
it  is  the  straight  gift,  the  bounty  for  us;  with  no  hand  be- 
tween ours  and  the  First  Giver's.  This  was  in  Richard 
Hathaway's  heart,  silently  and  half  aware  ;  making  it  beauti- 
ful to  take  into  his  hand  and  give  into  hers  ;  the  joy  of  Adam 
in  Eden,  that  every  man  r^eats  as  he  may  for  the  woman 
whom  he  loves.  The  joy  <fr  the  woman  is  that  there  is  this 
second  hand. 

So  they  give  and  take  —  lovers  —  flowers,  always,  by  an 
instinct ;  it  is  the  first  offering  ;  aujtfor  the  country  dwellers, 
there  is  this  fruit-gathering  ;  they  only  know  how  beautiful  it 
is  ;  it  is  a  part  of  speech  added  for  them  only.  We  live  and  act 
in  types,  always ;  we  are  learning,  soothe  short-hand  of 
heaven.  Richard  Hathaway  heaped  up  sweet  parables  to-day 
for  Anstiss  Dolbeare.  The  letters  spelled  strange  words  ;  she 
had  no  key,  as  yet;  the  rich  ripeness  and  the  fragrance  and 


A    STOnr  OF   YESTERDAYS.  159 

• 

the  beauty,  —  stillness,  kindness,  and  peace,  —  were  about 
her  ;  these  were  all ;  she  was  at  rest  and  happy  with  these. 

They  walked  all  the  way  back,  through  the  pasture  and 
woodland,  to  Mrs.  Cryke's  again  ;  Richard  leading  the  horse. 
When  they  came  there  they  found  somebody  else  before  the 
door.  Mrs.  Cryke  and  her  elbows  were  pouring  beer  and 
making  punctuation  for  Allard  Cope,  who  sat  on  his  beautiful 
black  horse,  so  perfectly  appointed  ;  handsome  and  ga}*,  him- 
self, in  his  summer  riding-dress,  with  the  flush  of  pleasant 
exercise  upon  his  cheeks,  and  an  expectation  shining  in  his 
eyes. 

Anstiss  Dolbeare  came  up,  in  her  blue  and  white  gingham 
dress,  with  its  small  white  linen  collar  and  cuffs,  her  sun- 
bonnet  of  the  same,  made  with  pretty  drawings  and  frills, 
hanging  back  from  her  face  like  the  calyx  of  a  flower,  and  her 
white  willow  basket,  full  of  red  berries  and  green  leaves  in  her 
hand. 

He  liked  her  just  so,  and  she  knew  it ;  she  knew  at  once 
that  he  had  come  all  this  way  to  find  her ;  she  would  have 
supposed,  a  minute  ago,  if  3*011  had  asked  her,  that  he  was  in 
New  York  ;  but  she  understood  it  instantly.  The  Copes  had 
got  home.  Home,  all  the  way  from  Europe,  the  mother  and 
Laura,  and  Kitty ;  and  Grandon,  who  had  been  away  for 
years.  Allard  and  his  father  had  gone  to  meet  them  on  their 
arrival ;  they  had  all  come  to  South  Side,  and  he  had  been 
over  to  Uncle  Ro}Tle's  already,  and  had  traced  her  here. 

Richard  Hathaway  knew  it  too ;  he  could  read  faster  than 
he  could  speak,  this  man  with  a  large,  silent  heart ;  he  was 
silent,  perhaps^  because  he  did  read  ;  he  was  noble  enough  for 
that,  too.  Anstiss  should  read,  and  compare,  and  learn  her 
own  mind  ;  he  could  wait.  He  was  noble  enough  not  even  to 
cloud  or  change,  jealously,  meeting  this  rival  to  whom  lie  gave 
the  road  ;  meeting  him,  in  the  midst  of  a  little  happiness  that 
belonged  quite  to  himself.  No  wonder  that  Anstiss  inter- 
preted none  of  his  parables. 

Allai^J  Cope's  straw  hat  was  in  his  hand  ;  the  buff  leather 
bridle  hung  loose  about  his  horse's  neck,  whose  head  was 
down  among  the  sweet  field  grass,  and  whose  long,  wavy 


160  ^HITHERTO: 

mane  touched  its  tops.  His  other  hand  took  Anstiss  Dol- 
beare's  and  gave  it  a  glad  pressure ;  then  he  swung  himself 
down,  put  his  arm  through  the  bridle-loop  and  stood  beside 
her* 

He  had  always  been  the  same  ;  blithe,  frank,  debonnair,  and 
honest,  in  his  boy -liking  up  to  his  man-loving  that  it  was 
going  to  be  ;  from  the  day  when  he  had  pulled  flowers  for  her 
in  his  mother's  garden  and  told  Augusta  Hare  what  a  pretty 
girl  she  was.  What  would  Anstiss  do  between  these  two? 
One  way  or  the  other,  it  would  seem  that  her  life  must 
brighten.  Only  they  were  such  different  ways  !  Yet  her  as- 
sociation had  been  alike  with  each,  and  as  much  with  the 
sphere  of  one  as  of  the  other.  It  had  been  the  single  thread 
of  melody  played  through  the  overture  of  her  young  years ; 
taken  up  by  two  different  instruments,  at  alternate  times  ;  but 
the  one  beautiful  strain  that  made  her  glad  when  she  caught 
it,  out  from  among  notes  that  elsewhere  confused  themselves 
in  intricacies  and  dissonances  that  might  be  —  she  supposed 
they  were  —  all  right  to  an  ear  which  could  recognize  the 
principle  that  grouped  and  ordered  them,  but  that  for  her  had 
been  so  tiresome,  —  such  a  pain.  She  could  not  feel,  yet,  the 
richness  of  the  inharmonic  chords. 

Now,  for  a  short  measure,  they  were  struck  together,  and 
in  unison.  For  Richard  Hathaway  was  just  as  kind,  just  as 
careful,  just  as  simple-friendly,  as  before.  She  liked  sitting 
by  his  side  in  the  open  wagon,  with  Hope  Devine  and  the 
strawberry-baskets  behind.  She  was  quite  herself,  with  these, 
away  from  Aunt  Ildy's  watching  and  comment.  It  was 
pleasanter,  so,  talking  with  Allard  Cope,  as  h$  rode  upon  her 
other  side  ;  and  if  there  were  a  secret  pride  and  gladness  in 
letting  it  be  seen  what  else  had  come  to  her  out  of  a  world 
so  rich  and  full  to  some,  —  if  even  she  cared  that  his  horse 
and  his  dress  and  his  bearing  were  all  so  perfect  and  elegant ; 
that  such  a  stamp  of  gentlemanhood  was  upon  him,  and  that 
with  all  this  he  came  to  her  and  found  something  congenial 
in  her,  even  though  she  wore  a  gingham  dress  and  a^eun-bou- 
net ;  that  he  never  minded  that  her  gloves  were  off  and  her 
finger-tips  rosy  wfth  strawberry-picking  ;  if  there  were  a  little 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  161 

triumph  in  the  consciousness  that  she  could  be  free  and  happy 
with  him,  she  knew  him  so  well,  and  was  so  sure  of  what  he 
thought  of  her,  —  was  it  very  bad  and  unnatural  in  a  girl  of 
nineteen,  who  had  not  begun  to  find  out  her  own  mind  yet, 
and  who  had  only  these  few  things  to  be  glad  and  proud  of,  — 
things  that  had  been  the  same  for  years  ? 

It  was  different  when  he  stood  talking  with  her  afterward, 
alone,  in  the  little  front  garden  by  the  fence,  among  the  roses  ; 
holding  his  horse's  bridle  over  the  rails,  putting  off  the  good- 
b}r  and  the  going.  The  shy,  restless  feeling  came  over  her 
then,  that  she  wished  he  would  not  stay  so,  and  that  the 
others  had  not  left  her.  Hope  had  gone  into  the  house,  Rich- 
ard had  driven  down  to  the  barn  ;  and  Allard  Cope  would  not 
come  in  to  tea,  neither  would  he  get  on  his  horse  and  go* 
home. 

It  was  all  very  well  up  to  a  point  like  this ;  she  was  not 
quite  ready  to  be  even  shyly  glad  of  moments  like  these. 
She  was  used  to  Allard  Cope  ;  she  was  proud  and  glad  of  his 
liking ;  she  wished,  sometimes,  as  she  had  said  to  Hope 
Devine,  that  she  "  belonged  at  the  Copes  ; "  but  she  could 
add  —  "  or  here."  She  could  not  spare  any  of  her  friendships^ 
or  pleasures  ;  but  she  would  rather,  since  they  were  just  what 
they  were,  that  they  should  stay  so, — for  a  while,  at  least. 
She  dreaded  anything  coming  that  must  be  .  decisive  ;  she 
never  talked  this  over  with  herself,  or  apprehended  definitely  ; 
,she  was  only  vaguely  divided  between  these  sudden  shri lik- 
ings and  her  strong  longings  and  leanings.  Into  Allard 
Cope's  life  —  the  life  into  which  he  might  take  somebody, 
some  time  —  she  looked,  as  into  a  paradise  ;  she  was  in  love 
—  with  his  mother,  and  the  home  atmosphere ;  with  himself, 
apart,  she  did  not  quite  know ;  she  did  not  want  to  ask  her- 
self, or  to  be  asked. 

But  all  this  belongs  to  Anstiss  Dolbeare's  own  remem- 
brances ;  she  can  tell  us  best ;  what  we  came  to  look  at  here 
was  what  she  did  not  see  and  could  not  tell. 

Richard  Hathaway  drove  old  Putterkoo  down  to  the  barn. 

His  day's  pleasure  had  come  and  gone  ;  now   there  were 
the  cattle  to  feed,  and  the  oats  to  be  ineasrjpd  for  the  horses, 
11 


162  HITHERTO: 

and  the  bedding  to  be  tossed  down,  and  the  mangers  to  fill. 
And  then,  when  orders  had  been  given  and  all  looked  to  and 
done,  and  Putterkoo  and  Swallow  had  begun  munching  their 
grain,  he  went  and  stood  by  the  fence  and  looked  over  into 
the  three-acre  clover-lot. 

What  did  it  tell  him,  this  field  of  clustering  trefoils  and 
white  and  purple  blossoms  ?  Out  of  its  bosom  what  comfort 
of  sweetness,  or  promise  of  bestowal  and  joy,  came  up-  to  him  ? 
Or  what  did  he  tell  to  it,  leaning  down  with  his  arms  along 
the  rail  and  his  farmer's  straw  hat  pulled  low  upon  his  fore- 
head? 

He  and  the  late  bees  had  it  to  themselves ;  a  swallow 
skimmed  over,  perhaps,  for  an  instant,  and  the  wind  swept 
along  the  close  pile  of  its  dense  leafage,  stirring  it  in  great 
masses,  and  shaking  incense  up  into  the  air. 

Time  to  mow  to-morrow.  That  was  what  he  was  thinking, 
perhaps?  Time  to  put  the  sharp  scythe  under  the  tender 
green  and  the  rose-purple,  and  the  pure,  sweet  whiteness  that 
had  been  growing  together  all  the  earl}'  summer-tide,  and 
crowding  the  whole  field  with  beauty?  There  was  no  such 
plover-patch  as  his  for  miles  around.  Hardly  a  stone  in  the 
generous  mellow  earth  beneath  it.  Full  of  heart  and  strength, 
—  ready  for  any  noble  crop,  —  and  given,  this  }'ear,  to  lux- 
ury of  green  tmd  a  wealth  of  flowers.  He  should  not  sow  it 
for  next  year  in  like  manner.  The  plough  must  run  under, 
and  the  harrow  be  fretted  across,  and  the  sober  grain  must 
go  in. 

The  bees  went  home,  —  the  swallows  were  fluttering  about 
the  barn-eaves ;  the  wind  slept ;  and  the  clover  was  still. 
Richard  Hathaway  was  thinking  very  definite!}'  now,  with  his 
head  bent  down  upon  his  two  hands  joined  together  on  the 
rail. 

"  She  shall  never  come  here  to  be  sorry  for  it.  I'll  never 
ask  her  into  that.  I'll  wait  and  see.  She's  here,  —  and  she 
always  will  be  ;  the  whole  place  is  full  of  her.  I'd  like  it  to 
be  the  only  thing  for  her  ;  is  that  mean,  I  wonder?  Thinking 
it  was,  for  so  long,  was  what  filled  it  up  so  to  me.  But  if  it 
isn't,  I  can  staudg^ide.  I've  got  stamina  enough  for  that." 


A    STPRY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  163 

He  got  up  straight  with  this,  and  pulled  his  hat  off,  and 
lifted  up  his  manly  head.  There  were  drops  upon  his  brow, 
and  the  twilight  air  was  soft  and  cool. 

"I  can't  talk  much,  maybe.  But,  God  helping,  I  can  hold 
my  tongue.  And  He  knows,  I  guess,  which  it  takes  most  of 
a  man  to  do.  I  don't  think  that  field  was  wasted,  planting 
it  so.  It's  been  pleasant,  and  pretty,  while  it  lasted,  and  it'll 
mix  rich  and  sweet  with  the  hay.  We'll  cut  it  to-morrow." 

The  time  of  the  clover-bloom  was  over ;  the  careless  sweet- 
ness was  at  an  end.  The  scythe  was  to  be  put  in. 

Richard  set  his  hat  upon  his  head  again,  and  walked  away. 
i  do  not  believe  he  knew  he  had  been  reading  himself  another 
parable ;  nevertheless,  he  and  the  clover  had  had  this  to  say 
to  each  other. 

The  dew  came  down  "and  rested  on  the  blossoms  ;  they  were 
baptized  unto  their  death.  For  the  man,  he  went  home  with 
the  sweat  of  a  heart-struggle  upon  him.  That,  also,  was  a 
chrism  from  Heaven. 

"  By  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  he  shall  eat  bread." 

And  a  man's  bread  is  every  word  that  proceedeth  also  out 
of  the  mouth  of  God. 


164  HITHERTO 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

WHAT   ANSTISS    DOLBEAKE   REMEMBERS. 

ALLARD     COPE. 

» 

IT  was  in  the  winter  after  I  was  eighteen  that  Allard  Cope 
began  to  come  so  much  to  Uncle  Royle's.  The  family  had 
always  been  kind  to  me  ;  but,  after  all,  their  life  and  ours  lay 
differently,  and  there  were  long  intervals  of  time  when  I  saw 
little  or  nothing  of  them. 

Margaret  Edgell  was  married.  Hers  was  the  first  wedding 
I  had  ever  seen.  What  new  mystery  of  beauty,  and  of  a 
strange,  holy,  separating  blessedness  was  around  her,  and  be- 
tween her  and  us  girls  and  all  her  old  self  and  life,  when  she 
stood  there  in  the  church  with  her  white  veil  falling  from  her 
head  to  her  feet,  enshrining  her,  and  the  minister  said  solemn 
words,  and  they  two  bowed  their  heads,  —  she  and  the  tall, 
handsome  man  beside  her,  —  and  so  took  the  solemnity  upon 
themselves  and  received  the  blessing ;  when  the  organ  sounded, ' 
and  in  the  thrill  and  tremble  of  its  music  they  moved  softly . 
down  the  aisle  again,  and  he  put  her  —  his  wife  —  in  her 
white  cloud  of  pure,  enfolding  draperies,  into  the  carriage,  — • 
the  only  real  coach  in  New  Oxford  except  the  private  equipa- 
ges at  South  Side,  —  and  got  in  and  sat  down  by  her,  and  they 
drove  away. 

Only  to  the  Edgells'  home  again,  at  first ;  there  we  saw  them 
again  for  an  hour  or  two  longer ;  and  then  she  went  upstairs 
and  took  off  all  the  cloud  and  the  mystery  and  the  fair  'types 
of  her  bridal  consequence  and  insulation,  and  came  down 
really  among  us,  in  her  simple  dark  silk  dress  and  her  shawl 
and  bonnet,  to  say  good-by. 

Still,  there  was  the  unseen  sacredness ;  the  grandeur  and 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  165 

the  mystery  of  the  new  relation ;  I  looked  upon  her  as  from 
a  sudden  distance,  though  she  kissed  me,  and  her  husband 
shook  me  cordially  by  the  hand,  and  they  said  I  must  come 
some  time  and  see  them  in  Fairholm.  There  was  something 
so  strange  and  beautiful  and  exciting  to  me  in  it ;  it  seized 
and  possessed  me  as  the  near  touch  of  deep  and  living  things 
does  seize  and  affect  the  young  imagination.  And  there  was 
so  little  that  came  into  the  dull  sameness  of  my  life  with  any- 
thing like  the  thrill  of  this  !  . 

I  went  home  and  made  a  silly  speech  at  the  tea-table.  Out 
of  the  fulness  of  feeling,  and  the  awe  at  something  far  off  and 
yet  close  in  a  strange  sympathy  of  possibility.  I  felt  the  re- 
ality ;  I  spoke  of  the  type. 

"  Oh,  she  did  look  so  lovely,  Aunt  Ildy  !  If  ever  I'm  mar- 
ried, I'll  be  married  in  church,  and  have  a  long  veil  like 
l^rs ! " 

"Married!"  Aunt  Ildy  withered  me.  I  was  achiW;  I  had 
no  business  to  think  of  such  things ;  I'd  better  wait  till  I 
was  asked  ;  I  wasn't  worth  asking ;  I,  married  !  Preposter- 
ous ;  forward ;  unseemly  !  All  this  tingled  through  me  with 
her  one  word. 

I  colored  all  up,  burningly.  I  felt  as  if  I  had  said  some 
shameful  thing.  Yet  only  a  year  ago  it  would  have  been  just 
the  same  for  Margaret  Edgell ;  and  still,  here  it  had  come  to 
pass.  Why  was  it  so  improper  up  to  the  very  minute  ?  I  was 
only  comforted  to  think  that  Uncle  Royle  had  not  come  in. 

What  right  had  she  to  make  me  feel  so  mean,  and  so 
ashamed?  Afterward,  it  was  the  cause  that  I  hardly  dared  to 
ask  my  own  of  life,  or  to  know  when  I  had  got  it ;  it  put  me 
false ;  it  made  me  mistake  great  meanings.  It  took  me  a 
long  while,  and  it  cost  me  pain ;  worse,  —  it  pained  nobler 
lives  than  mine,  before  the  years  and  God's  light  set  me 
straight  and  showed  me  clear. 

I  saw  Margaret  Holcombe  a  few  months  after  ;  only  across 
the  way  ;  she  had  come  just  for  the  day  to  her  father's,  and 
from  my  old  window  I  looked  up  at  hers,  as  in  the  childish 
times,  and  saw  her  there. 

Her  pretty  silk  dress-filled  up  the  low  window-seat  with  its 


166  HITHERTO: 

shining  folds  and  soft  color.  Her  husband  came  in  and  laid  a 
little  basket  of  some  small,  ripe  fruit  upon  her  lap.  Then^she 
laughed,  and  made  room  for  him,  and  they  two  sat  there 
together,  dipping  their  fingers  among  the  stems,  and  dividing, 
and  eating,  like  happy  children. 

It  was  the  old  story.  Everything  was  beautiful  and  happy, 
even  to  a  sublimity,  over  there.  Here,  I  had  the  old  inacces- 
sible window-pane,  and  my  chin  stretched  up  to  it,  an'l  my 
mending-basket  at  my  feet,  just  #s  it  was  years  ago. 

I  was  not  without  self-chidings  for  my  discontents.  I  was 
not  without  glimpses  of  better  things  in  life  than  havings  or 
doings,  even  then.  That  is,  I  knew  the  things  were,  and  that 
I  ought  to  find  them  ;  that  God  had  given  me  my  life,  and  the 
place  and  the  way  of  it ;  and  that  if  I  was  truly  good,  I  should 
be  glad  in  him,  and  should  not  care.  But  I  was  not  truly 
good,  yet.  I  only  wanted  to  be.  And  I  wanted  help,  so  !  I 
wanted  some  great,  strong,  kindly,  loving  soul  to  stand  close 
beside  me  ;  a  motherly  soul,  or  a  fatherly,  it  might  have  been ; 
but  I  had  missed  that,  and  I  was  almost  a  woman  now,  and  a 
blind  asking  for  something  yet  possible  stirred  within  me.  I 
did  not  care  particularly  to  sit  and  eat  cherries  in  a  pleasant 
window  ;  that  only  signified  something  more.  I  would  like  to 
share  great  sunrises,  and  solemn,  beautiful  sunsets ;  deep 
starlights  and  grand  thoughts ;  questions  and  knowledges  ; 
unspoken  prayers,  and  griefs  and  joys  ;  to  be  always  sure  of 
a  hand  in  mine,  and  a  thought  above  mine.  I  was  only  ask- 
ing for  what  God  only  gives  because  he  has  first  made  every 
human  spirit  to  yearn  for  it. 

The  winter  after  I  was  eighteen,  there  was  a  change.  I  had 
new  amusements, 'and  I  saw  more  of  the  little  world  about 
me. 

I  went  to  the  great  New  Oxford  ball,  that  they  used  to  have 
once  a  year,  and  that  everybody  went  to ;  the  families  from 
South  Side,  and  the  tradesmen  in  the  town  :  the  large  farmers, 
with  their  wives  and  daughters,  from  the  country  miles  about, 
from  Broadfields  to  Whiteacre.  It  was  a  grand  old-times'  in- 
stitution, surviving  recent  differences,  and  transgressing  the 
lines  of  daily  custom. 


A    STOIiY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  167 

Plain  old  women  in  snuff-colored  silks  and  white  necker- 
chiefs, with  gold  beads,  like  Mrs.  Hathaway's,  round  their 
throats,  represented  the  rural  dignities,  and  sat  against  the 
walls,  proper  and  very  strange.  Plainer  women  still,  in 
woollen  stuffs,  and  indescribable  combs  and  collars,  gathered 
modestly  in  far  corners,  and  stretched  and  peered,  with  mild 
fidgets  and  solicitudes,  above  the  crowd  ;  doing  their  duty  anx- 
iously of  seeing  all  that  was  to  be  seen.  Young  people  took 
the  floor  and  danced  together  ;  the  simplest  in  some  freshness  of 
white  muslin  and  bright  ribbons,  or  bran-new  suits  a  little  stiff 
in  the  collars,  and  unaccustomed  "pumps"  and  white  stockings  ; 
they  who  came  down  out  of  a  grander  every-day,  quiet  and  grace- 
ful in  their  delicate  best,  as  their  mothers  wore  their  satins  and 
velvets  ;  for  unity,  not  contrast  or  pride  ;  the  yeomanry  and 
shop-keepers  would  have  been  more  wounded  if  the  gentle-peo- 
ple had  slighted  them  with  demi-toilette  while  they  were  doing 
their  utmost.  It  was  a  gay,  good  time  ;  everybody  was  happy  ; 
I  wish  they  had  such  balls  now. 

I  had  not  been  the  year  before  ;  Uncle  Royle  had  been  ill. 
Now  he  took  us  with  him,  he  in  all  the  precisenes"s  and  dignity 
of  his  black  clothes  and  ruffled  shirt ;  Aunt  Ildy  in  black 
silk  and  violet  ribbons  in  her  cap.  He  would  have  her  go,  not- 
withstanding her  orthodoxy  ;  and  as  she  scrupulously  kept  out 
of  the  card-room,  and  was  under  no  temptation  to  dance,  I  sup- 
pose she  felt  secure  that  the  devil  would  get  no  more  of  her  than 
he  was  otherwise  entitled  to  ;  nevertheless,  she  did  step  round 
very  much  as  if  the  floor  burned  under  her  feet ;  but  perhaps 
it  was  her  tight  black  satin  slippers.  She  had  kept  them  for 
state  occasions  ever  since  I  could  remember,  and  she  allowed 
herself  great  latitude  and  ease  ordinarily,  so  that  I  think  it 
became  more  difficult  each  year  to  wear  them  complacently. 

Is  tins  very  ill-natured  of  me?  I  do  not  mean  it  so.  I  re- 
spected Aunt  Ildy  ;  I  loved  her,  in  spite  of  her  hardness  ;  and 
I  never  felt  more  gently  affectionate  than  when  she  counte- 
nanced me  in  this  great  pleasure  that  night. 

But  oh,  I  was  happy  !  Frivolously,  excitedly,  foolishly 
happy  ;  it  almost  seemed  to  me  wickedly,  brought  up  as  I  had 
been.  Because  I  could  not  help  being  so  glad  that  my  blue 


168  HITHERTO: 

dress  was  just  as  pretty  as  it  could  be,  and  that  the  white 
roses  set  so  gracefully  against  my  soft,  full  hair,  and  on  the 
bosom  of  the  low  corsage  ;  and  that  Uncle  Royle  had  given  me 
money  and  bade  me  choose  for  myself,  and  I  had  been  able  to 
have  the  little  blue  silk  slippers  which  matched  my  dress. 
This  was  of  a  kind  of  striped  silk  gauze  ;  the  stripes  were  like 
floating,  glistening  ribbons  with  their  satiny  texture  and  rip- 
pling fall ;  and  I  had  long  ribbons  like  them  at  my  shoulders. 
I  had  never  been  dressed  like  tins  before.  Now  something 
would  happen  !  Now  the  story  would  begin  ! 

I  think  it  did  begin.  The  Copes  were  there  ;  afterward,  Mrs. 
Cope  and  her  daughters  went  out  to  Europe  to  join  Grandon, 
and  were  gone  four  months  ;  but  they  were  all  there  that  night. 

They  spoke  to  everybody  whom  they  met ;  but  they  took  me 
right  in  among  them,  and  kept  me  with  them.  We  separated  for 
the  dances  ;  Mrs.  Cope  would  not  allow  her  party  to  make  up 
sets  by  themselves  ;  they  mixed  simply  and  graciously  among 
the  rest.  And  that  set  the  tone  for  all  New  Oxford  and  South 
Side  ;  there  was  no  sidling  off,  nor  any  airs,  or  jealousy ; 
everybody  was  happy,  and  went  back  into  every-day  the  better 
for  it.  I  think  it  was  as  good  as  many  a  church  service. 

Everybody  did  not  waltz  then ;  and  the  polka  and  its  kin 
were  unknown.  I  waltzed  ;  I  had  learned  at  dancing-school 
with  Allard  and  his  sisters,  and  he  asked  me  every  time  for 
his  partner.  I  did  not  grow  hot  and  tired,  as  some  of  the 
heavy  girls  did  ;  I  was  small  and  slight ;  and  Allard  held  rne 
up  so  lightly.  He  told  me  I  waltzed  as  if  I  could  not  help  it ; 
and  so  I  did. 

I -was  whole-half  happy  that  night, — if  anybody  would 
know  what  that  means.  Yet  I  think  we  all  do.  I  was  utterly 
happy  with  one  side  of  me,  —  the  gay  child-side.  And  I  owed 
it  all  to  Allard  Cope,  nearly.  With  that  gay,  child-side  of 
me,  I  loved  him ;  then,  and  once  in  a  while,  always.  Why 
not  quite  and  for  all  whiles  ? 

Hope  Devine  was  there,  too,  with  Richard  Hathaway  and 
his  mother,  and  I  think  there  never  was  a  better  time  than  she 
had  that  night. 

When  Hope  was  glad,  her  eyes,  to  which  belonged  a  color 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  169 

of  their  own  at  all  times,  had  a  strange  clearness.  They 
seemed  as  if  they  were  all  light.  You  could  see  into  them  as 
you  can  see  into  the  sun,  —  into  an  infinite,  glowing  ether. 
So  clear  and  lucent  were  they  that  they  gave  you  that  feeling 
of  depth,  as  the  sun  does,  since  through  its  ineffable  clearness 
you  discern  nothing  but  itself.  It  was  like  looking  into  a 
soul. 

I  did  not  see  very  much  of  Richard  that  evening.  I  was  with 
the  Copes  so  much,  and  he  had  his  mother  and  Hope  to  care 
for.  I  mean,  I  did  not  talk  with  him  very  much  ;  I  saw  him, 
somehow,  nearly  all  the  time.  I  felt  as  if  he  saw  me.  I  think 
it  was  because  he  was  always  such  a  silent  man  that  you  felt 
so  the  watching  and  the  thinking  of  his  friendship.  I  knew 
he  was  glad  that  I  was  so  happy.  I  liked  to  have  him  see  me 
dance,  and  I  should  have  missed  him  out  of  the  hall  if  he  had 
gone  awajr,  even  in  the  very  midst  of  a  waltz. 

Hope  had  never  learned  to  dance.  But  that  night  she  took 
it,  as  she  took  everything  else,  —  by  an  inspiration.  Not 
the  quadrilles  ;  people  danced  steps  then,  and  she  would  not 
try  these,  though  I  saw  Richard  asking  her.  I  danced  two 
quadrilles  with  him  myself;  he  came  and  asked  me  for  them 
very  early. 

There  was  something  of  his  goodness  in  his  very  dancing. 
He  made  no  show  or  fuss  about  it ;  he  just  moved  with  the 
music  in  a  simple,  unpretending  way,  that  was  by  no  means 
awkward  either ;  and  he  seemed  to  be  always  caring  for  his 
partner.  It  was  a  kind  of  a  similitude.  He  let  you  go  from 
him  in  the  figures  with  a  gentleness  and  a  looking-after  ;  and 
then  he  stood  in  his  own  place  in  a  quietness  that  was  like 
trust,  till  you  came  to  him  again  ;  and  then  he  claimed  yon 
and  drew  you  back  beside  him  in  a  way  that  was  almost  shel- 
tering and  tender  ;  and  when  he  went  too,  through  the  gay  and 
intricate  turns,  it  was  like  a  joy  and  a  protection.  He  was 
no  ballroom  man  ;  he  was  a  plain  farmer,  and  danced  perhaps 
only  twice  or  thrice  in  a  year ;  but  there  was  the  poetry 
of  it  in  the  way  he  did  it,  as  I  never  found  it  out  from  any- 
body's else. 

Hope  got  up  at  last,  in  the  second  country  dance.     She  had 


170  HITHERTO: 

watched  the  first  one  down,  as  if  she  danced  it  in  her  heart, 
and  then  she  "  saw  how  it  went,"  as  she  sav;  everything ;  and 
I  only  wish  I  could  tell  how  she  danced  it.  With  Richard, 
of  course ;  nobody  else  could  have  persuaded  her.  She  was 
just  like  a  spirit.  She  didn't  think  of  her  feet  or  her  hands  ; 
they  took  care  of  themselves  ;  it  was  Mke  beautiful  script,  — 
her  winding  in  and  out,  and  up  and  clown  ;  tracing  something 
swiftly  and  surely  to  make  an  end  and  a  meaning  out  of  it. 
There  was  not  a  halt,  nor  a  break,  nor  a  sharp,  unskilful 
turn ;  every  curve  was  a  part  and  a  hint  of  a  perfect  and 
graceful  whole.  If  her  movement  had  marked  itself  somehow 
as  she  went  down  the  room,  in  the  air,  or  along  the  floor,  I 
wonder  what  it  would  have  been.  Something  akin  to  the 
signs  the  swallows  write  against  the  dusk,  or  the  flowers 
make  in  smaller  print,  nodding  and  swaying  on  their  stalks, 
or  the  great  inclusive  hieroglyph  the  planets  outline  in 
heaven. 

But  then  she  was  always  like  that ;  it  was  born  in  her  ;  it 
was  no  wonder  she  could  dance  without  learning.  Lessons 
only  teach  b}7  rote  a  segment  of  the  harmony  that  describes 
itself  continually  in  some  few  lives,  and  hers  was  one.  If 
she  swept  a  floor,  or  made  up  a  bed,  it  was  just  the  same. 

She  stood  with  that  happy  look  in  her  eyes,  her  hand  still 
in  Richard's  for  an  instant,  at  the  foot,  after  they  had  fin- 
ished. Something  occurred  to  me  at  that  moment.  I  won- 
dered —  and  I  have  wondered  since  —  if,  or  why  —  But  I 
will  remember  only  one  thing  at  a  time. 

We  ended  with  a  "  boulanger,"  —  a  great  dance  in  a  circle, 
all  round  the  room,  all  of  us  together.  I  was  between  Allard 
Cope  and  Richard  in  this.  Allard  was  my  partner,  and 
Richard  was  beyond  me,  with  Hope  again.  This  and  the 
country  dance  were  the  only  two  things  she  joined  in. 

There  were  basket  figures,  and  grand  right  and  left,  and  a 
Spanish  dance  figure,  and  all  rounds,  and  promenades,  and  a 
"  coquette."  Hope  fluttered  a  minute,  when  it  came  to  her, 
in  this,  and  then  turned  suddenly  and  gave  her  hands  again  to 
Richard.  He  took  her  hand  quietly,  and  she  looked  so 
content,  that  I  wondered  again  —  why,  and  if.  I  came 


A    STOnY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  171 

next,  and  I  had  half  a  mind  to  turn  Richard  too.  At  any 
rate,  I  ran  away  from  Allard  Cope,  and  before  I  thought  I 
had  got  among  some  people  I  did  not  know,  and  then  I  broke 
right  through  the  set,  and  turned  Allard's  father,  who  stood 
looking  on.  There  was  a  great  laugh,  and  he  laughed  pleas- 
antly, too,  and  with  his  old-school  courtesy  led  me  down 
the  outside  of  the  circle,  and  handed  me  back  to  his  son.  It 
drew  looks  upon  me;  I  had  not  meant  it;  it  had  just  hap- 
pened ;  but  there  was,  in  the  midst  of  the  embarrassment,  a 
half-proud  consciousness  of  the  kind  distinction  with  which 
they  treated  me,  and  that  people  saw  it ;  and  something  that 
1  did  not  stop  to  think  about  made  my  heart  beat  suddenly. 

After  that  we  broke  up  into  a  galoppe,  up  and  down  the 
long  room,  and  then  came  the  thinning,  and  the  stopping,  and 
the  scattering  away. 

Somebody  ran  against  Hope  in  the  galoppe.  She  herself 
was  like  a  sunbeam,  that  glanced  by  or  paused  softly,  always  ; 
she  never  would  have  run  against  anjTbody ;  but  some  one 
blundered  against  her,  and  almost  threw  her  down.  Richard's 
strong  arm  was  round  her  waist  instantly ;  I  saw  him  catch 
her  so,  and  hold  her  till  he  was  sure  she  had  her  footing,  and 
was  not  hurt.  Hope's  face  was  bright  all  over  with  a  sudden 
blush.  It  was  the  mishap,  the  startle,  perhaps  ;  but  her  eyes 
were  down,  too.  It  was  a  different  expression  from  any  I 
was  used  to  in  her.  She  was  always  so  up-looking,  so  straight 
and  frank.  If  anything  happened,  she  took  it  just  as  it  was, 
simply,  and  without  disturbance.  And  this  was  only  for  an 
instant,  while  she  answered  his  question  and  moved  gently 
away  out  of  his  hold.  I  do  not  think  she  knew  it  herself,  for 
in  an  instant  more  it  had  quite  passed,  and  her  face  had  the 
old,  dear,  happy  look. 

They  did  not  dance  any  more.  That  was  the  last.  And 
Allard  Cope  took  me  up  to  the  dressing-rooms  then,  to  find 
Aunt  Ildy,  and  I  put  up  her  cap  in  the  box,  and  found  her 
cloak  and  hood  and  moccasins  for  her,  and  put  on  1113'  own 
wraps,  and  Uncle  Royle  came  and  looked  in  at  the  door,  and 
we  joined  him,  and  went  downstairs. 

Somebody  at  the  foot   held  out   an  arm  fur  me  as  I  camo 


172  HITHERTO: 

down  behind  them.  I  took  it,  without  looking  up.  I  thought 
it  was  Allard  Cope's.  We  went  out  from  the  passage  that 
seemed  dim  after  the  lights  above,  and  stood  on  the  snow- 
path  in  the  moonlight.  Then  I  saw  it  was  Richard  Hath- 
away. 

"  You  have  had  a  good  time  to-night."  He  did  not  ask,  — 
he  said  it ;  he  had -seen  my  good  time  ;  he  had  watched  it. 

"  Oh,  yes  !  "  I  answered,  with  all  my  heart. 

"  I  am  glad." 

I  wonder  why  this  did  not  seem  much  to  me.  I  know  now 
how  much  it  was  ;  how  generous  it  was  ;  how  those  three  words 
held  more  of  a  man  in  them  than  the  finest  sentence  could. 

He  did  not  say  another  syllable,  except  "  good-night,"  after 
he  had  seen  me  safe  into  the  wagon  sleigh.  There  was  noth- 
ing a  bit  romantic  about  Richard  Hathaway.  But  his  good-night 
meant  a  real  wish  ;  I  felt  that,  then.  Somehow,  the  grasp  of 
his  hand  stayed  about  mine  long  after  we  drove  off  and  he 
left  us.  He  did  not  move  until  we  had  driven  off.  It  had  been 
pleasure  and  excitement,  upstairs,  all  the  evening.  Down  here, 
at  this  last  moment,  came  a  reminder  of  a  rest ;  of  something 
waiting  for  me  to  return  to ;  something  sure,  and  for  always. 

I  do  not  know  what  took  Allard  away,  just  as  we  left ;  I 
think  he  had  meant  to  see  me  down  ;  but  it  had  happened  so. 
Richard  had  not  come  in  the  way ;  but  he  had  watched  there 
at  the  stair-foot  till  I  came  down,  alone  ;  and  then  he  had  been 
ready. 

He  always  did  watch  so ;  and  I  always  found  him  ready. 
So- that  it  came  to  be  a  habit  in  my  life,  if  I  had  a  pain,  or  a 
want,  or  a  fear,  that  I  thought  of  him  ;  he  would  have  been  so 
sure  to  pity  if  he  knew  ;  and  to  help,  if  he  could. 

If  there  is  a  heart  in  the  world  like  this,  with  a  friendship 
in  it  for  you,  it  is  a  divine  thing,  and  life  is  rich.  Yet  you 
may  be  restless  ;  and  you  may  not  know  that  it  is  enough. 
That  knowledge  grows  only  out  of  the  yesterdays. 

It  was  after  this  t'hat  Allard  Cope  came  so  much,  all  the 
winter  and  spring,  to  our  house.  His  eldest  sister,  Mrs.  Oxeu- 
aje,  wijbh^her  husband  and  two  chiHren,  came  to  South  Side  to 
stay  after  the  others  went  away.  They  went  rather  suddenly, 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  173 

with  a  family  of  friends  from  New  York,  in  one  of  the  wonder- 
ful new  ocean  steamers  ;  and  they  were  to  come  home  with 
Grandon  in  the  summer.  Grandon  had  turned  out  such  a  noble 
man.  He  had  followed  his  scientific  studies  abroad,  and  had 
become  associated  with  some  famous  astronomers  and  mathe- 
maticians, and  his  name  was  connected  with  new  and  im- 
portant calculations.  He  was  coining  home  full  of  great 
plans  and  hopes  for  science  in  his  own  country. 

Allard  used  to  lend  me  books,  and  sometimes  bring  me 
flowers.  It  was  pleasant,  and  there  was  nothing  for  me  to  do, 
at  first,  but  to  be  pleased.  It  would  have  been  absurd  to  be 
in  a  hurry  to  put  on  airs  of  caution  with  Allard  Cope,  as  if 
his  kindness  meant  anything  new.  I  did  not  care  to  think 
about  it  yet,  if  it  did. 

How  could  I  tell  —  anything — yet? 

Once  in  a  while  some  sudden  feeling  would  come  over  me, 
of  one  or  the  other  contradictory  nature.  A  thrill,  some- 
times,—  with  that  great  heart-beat, — at  a  possibility  that  I 
would  not  shape  to  myself;  but  that  flashed  a  bright  vision 
upon  me  of  what  might  come  real  —  to  somebody.  His  home 
—  and  his  mother  —  and  his  brother,  so  high  and  distin- 
guished —  and  the  whole  family  place  and  consequence.  A 
life  of  refinement,  and  access  to  noble  and  beautiful  things 
and  companionships.  I  remembered  those  days  shared  with 
me  out  of  this  life  of  theirs  ;  I  remembered  that  night  with  the 
stars. 

I  was  pleased,  in  my  lower  self,  to  have  Aunt  Ilcly  see  what 
she  did  see  ;  I  was  stung  with  a  craving  for  her  better  thought 
of  me.  It  was  partly  a  mere  instinct  for  truth  and  justice  ;  I 
knew  there  was  more  of  me  than  she  measui'ed.  What  if — I 
got  so  far,  sometimes ;  but  I  never  said  the  rest.  Yet  the 
question  asked  itself  of  me  in  the  under-conscionsness,  and  it 
went  to  make  up  the  force  that  swayed  me  —  this  way. 

And  then,  again,  it  would  be  the  shrinking  —  the  unreadi- 
ness ;  at  some  special  word  or  look  it  would  come,  and  put  a 
trouble  in  my  heart.  Was  I  right?  What  ought  I  to  do? 
How  could  I  tell  ? 

This  is  the  trouble  with  a  woman  ;  there  is  no  interval ;  from 


174  HITHERTO: 

the  minute  it  begins  she  must  act  as  from  a  certainty ;  people 
will  judge  her,  looking  back  from  the  end  ;  and  for  her  it  is  an 
impropriety  to  be  looking  forward.  She  must  "  know  what 
she  is  about,"  while  she  is  making  up  her  mind.  She  must 
see  and  not  see,  feel  and  not  feel ;  her  conscience  interferes 
before  her  heart  can  interpret  itself. 

It  was  pleasant  to  be  with  Allard  Cope  ;  I  was  proud  of  his 
caring  for  me  ;  I  should  have  missed  it  if  he  had  not.  I  was 
uneasy  if  he  kept  away  longer  than  usual ;  and  yet,  half  the 
time,  I  was  afraid  of  his  coming  aud  of  what  it  meant. 

In  the  midst  of  this  I  went  out  again  to  stay  with  the 
Hathaways. 

And  then  Allard  began  to  come  over  there. 


A  STORY  OF  YESTERDAYS.  175 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

RED   HILL. 

• 

IT  was  pleasant  June  weather,  —  the  last  of  the  month,  — 
when  I  went  to  the  farm  ;  just  the  season  for  drives  and  coun- 
try plans. 

The  first  time  Allard  came,  he  met  us  at  Red  Hill,  on  our 
way  home  from  a  strawberrying,  the  second  day  of  my  visit.  And 
then  nothing  would  do  but  he  must  get  his  sisters  out  there,  — 
they  had  just  come  home,  all  of  them  together,  from  Europe, 
—  and  they  must  pick  strawberries,  and  drink  Mrs.  Cryke's 
beer. 

This  was  the  beginning  of  a  good  deal  of  intercourse,  to 
and  fro,  between  South  Side  and  the  Farm. 

"What  could  I  do  to  help  that  ?  People  took  summer  drives 
from  far  and  wide,  to  taste  Mrs.  Cryke's  beer,  and  go  round 
Red  Hill  in  the  sunset.  Why  should  not  the  Copes  come  ?  It 
was  their  all  coming,  and  our  getting  all  together  so,  that 
made  it  impossible  for  me  to  prevent  Allard.  And  he  was 
over  now,  nearly  every  day,  on  one  errand  or  another. 

One  night  we  had  a  regular  party  to  the  top  of  the  hill. 
We  had  never  been  yet,  in  all  this  time,  to  get  the  jasper  Rich- 
ard had  promised  me  years  before.  There  had  always  been 
something  else  doing,  when  I  was  at  the  Farm,  and  going  up 
Red  Hill  seemed  to  be  the  thing  for  a  party.  So  at  last  it 
happened  that  though  I  had  lived  all  my  life  within  half-a- 
dozen  miles  of  it,  I  climbed  it  for  the  first  time  now,  with 
Hope  and  Richard,  and  the  Copes  and  Augusta  Hare,  who  had 
come  to  South  Side  again  to  make  a  visit.  She  had  been 
abroad,  too,  with  a  party  of  friends,  only  last  year.  She 
travelled  about  a  great  deal.  She  spent  most  of  her  summers 
at  some  gathering  place  at  springs  or  seashore, — the  inoun- 


176  HITHERTO: 

tains  were  not  invented  then,  —  or  in  visiting  about ;  and  her 
winters  sometimes  at  Washington,  sometimes  in  New  York, 

and  sometimes  in  H .  Her  old  engagement  had  come  to 

nothing.  It  lasted  just  long  enough  to  give  her  #  great 
school-girl  eclat  and  pre-eminence,  and  then  something  hap- 
pened which  made  another  interesting  story  and  excitement 
for  the  young  world  that  had  time  to  tell  and  hear  it  over  into 
a  tradition  that  it  knew  by  heart ;  something  in  which  she 
played  a  very  spirited  and  dramatic  part,  distinguishing  her- 
self as  much  in  the  dismissal  of  her  lover  as  in  the  having 
one  at  all.  But  the  really  best  of  it  was  that  it  occurred  in 
such  early  youth  that  she  had  had  time  to  outgrow  it  in  the 
memories  of  thoughtful  and  sensible  people  who  had  not 
learned  it  by  heart  at  the  time,  and  to  whom  it  might  not  have 
appeared  such  an  advantage. 

So  now  she  was  at  the  Copes  again. 

Grandon  Cope  drove  over  with  Augusta  and  Laura  and  a 
friend  —  Miss  Rathbun  —  to  whom  they  wished  to  show  Red 
Hill.  Kitty  and  Allard  rode. 

Hope  and  Richard  and  I  just  went  over  in  the  open  wagon, 
as  usual.  Hope  had  tea,  and  all  sorts  of  nice  things  in  bas- 
kets, behind,  ready  for  our  gypsy  supper.  Of  course  we  could 
not  have  done  without  Hope,  any  more  than  we  could  without 
the  baskets. 

Hope  had  a  position  at  the  Farm  and  in  Broadfields  such  as 
is  peculiar,  I  suppose,  to  a  New  England  family  and  neighbor- 
hood. The  Hathaways  took  her  in,  from  the  outset,  as  one 
of  themselves ;  she  grew  up  so,  and  nobody  troubled  them- 
selves to  go  back  of  that,  or  to  inquire  how  she  had  begun. 
The  fact  was  accomplished.  And  besides,  if  they  had 
troubled,  she  began,  after  all,  just  as  they  did,  only  up  in  New 
Hampshire.  She  came  of  farming  people,  too.  She  was  just 
a  bright,  clever  New  England  girl,  and  her  place  was  anywhere 
where  Providence  might  please  to  put  her ;  and  Providence, 
without  the  least  irreverence,  pleases  to  put  New  England  men 
and  women  in  a  good  many  different  places,  sometimes,  before 
it  has  done  with  them.  We  are  not  planted,  like  our  oaks  and 
pines,  or  even  according  to  the  catechism. 


A    STORY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  177 

It  was  an  instance  of  how  we  do  shade  and  blend  together 
here,  and  how  one  tone  of  uniting  color  runs  through  the 
varying  tints,  that  circumstances  could  bring  it  about  that  the 
Copes  and  Hope  Devine  should  meet  here  on  Red  Hill,  taking 
tea  together  quite  on  equal  terms  for  the  time  being.  She  was 
one  with  the  Hathawa}^  ;  the  Hathaways  were  important  and 
respected  people  in  this  country  neighborhood,  and  they  were 
my  friends  and  entertainers  ;  and  I  was  admitted,  from  just  an 
etage  below,  perhaps,  but  out  of  good  family  claim,  and  what 
they  pleased  to  consider  personal  qualifications,  to  their  inti- 
macy and  friendship.  There  is  more  fine  line-drawing  in 
cities,  among  people  who  truly,  after  all,  are  far  more  on  a 
level ;  but  the  real  country  still  holds,  or  did  th.cn,  its  good, 
old,  healthy  backbone  which  is  its  strength  ;  and  no  one  verte- 
bra unlocks  itself  foolishly  from  its  neighbor,  up  and  down. 

I  think  I  never  saw  so  handsome  a  man  as  Grandon  Cope. 
He  was  beginning,  even  at  twenty-eight,  to  grow  a  little  stout ; 
but  he  was  built  upon  a  plan  that  would  bear  this  amplifying. 
A  little,  small-featured  man,  who  grows  squat,  and  Avhose  eyes 
shut  up  as  his  flesh  increases,  may  well  deprecate  the  gain. 
It  turns  him  into  just  what  he  is,  at  some  root  of  his  nature. 
But  a  man  who  grows  grand  and  full,  —  who  seems  as  if  his 
heai't  were  big  enough  to  require  more  body  to  hold  it  than 
other  people's,  —  and  whose  intellect  sits  supreme  on  an  am- 
ple brow  and  kindles  within  large-orbited,  deep-set  eyes,  — 
whose  limbs  are  firm  and  free,  to  stride  forth  into  his  life- 
action,  to  stretch  out  a  broad-handed  grasp,  and  to  gather  into 
strong,  sheltering  embrace  that  which  he  would  hold  next  the 
great,  generous  heart,  —  this  man  is  one  of  God's  glorious 
creatures,  and  such  a  man  was  Grandon  Cope.  There  were  a 
few  shining  threads  among  the  close,  brown  locks  upon  his 
temples,  thus  early.  They  only  glistened  at  the  ends,  like  a 
slight  powdering  of  silver  grains,  and  they  helped,  artistically, 
as  a  point  of  color,  to  fill  out  the  lustre  of  the  face  whose 
deeply  brilliant  eyes  and  perfect  teeth  made  its  smile,  or  its 
least  movement  in  speech,  a  resplendence. 

I  had  as  much  idea  of  Gramlou  Cope  taking  any  special  no- 
tice of  rne  as  I  had  of  Red  Hill  bowing  its  crest  before  my  as- 
12 


178    f  HITHERTO: 

cending  feet.  I  talked  and  walked  with  Allard  and  Hope. 
Richard  helped  the  young  ladies  up  the  rough  ascent,  and 
they  seemed  well  pleased  with  his  quiet,  manly  efficiency  and 
his  becoming  bearing.  They  made  him  talk,  as  much  as  he 
ever  did ;  and  to  make  Richard  Hathaway  talk  was  to  draw 
forth  something  real  and  significant,  in  so  far  as  it  went.  Mr. 
Grandon  Cope  had  Miss  Rathbun  and  Augusta  to  his  share', 
naturally,  as  the  elders  of  the  party.  Walking  behind  these,  I 
looked  and  listened. 

We  kept  this  order  nearly  all  the  way  up  the  hill.  Richard 
carried  a  large  basket ;  Hope  had  a  small,  light  one,  which 
having  cream  and  vanity  cakes  in  it,  she  would  by  no  means 
trust  to  other  hands.  Mr.  Cope  and  Allard  were  each  laden, 
also,  with  some  contribution  from  South  Side.  I  had  the  bas- 
ket of  sponge  cake.  One  of  the  farm  boys  who  had  ridden  over 
on  Swallow,  trudged  in  the  rear,  with  frequent  halts,  bearing 
the  few  articles  of  table  furniture  that  were  needed,  with  the 
spirit-lamp  and  the  water-boiler,  and  some  spoons. 

"  If  the  fun  of  the  world  isn't  the  work,  after  all,  why  pic- 
nics?" said  Grandon  Cope,  looking  back  and  laughing. 

"  Only,  perhaps,"  said  I,  as  I  met  his  look,  "  we're  so  used 
to  our  pack  that  we  don't  know  how  to  go  without  it." 

It  took  very  little  to  amuse  Grandon  Cope.  I  have  noticed 
this  in  other  men  of  great  thought  and  deep  study.  The 
laugh  was  alwaj^s  perdu  in  his  eyes  and  on  his  lips.  I  believe 
it  is  the  greatest  fools  who  go  gravest  through  the  world.  If 
the  heart  and  brain  hold  anything  much,  it  overflows  easily. 
He  laughed  again  at  my  answer,  and  then  the  quietness  came 
back,  as  he  said,  still  in  the  same  tone,  however :  — 

"  I  wonder  if  we  shall  feel  so.  about  our  troubles,  some- 
time?" 

It  set  me  thinking.  If  all  my  troubles  rolled  away  from  me 
suddenly,  what  should  I  be,  —  the  rest  of  me?  Very  like, 
perhaps,  to  something  from  which  the  law  of  gravitation  had 
withdrawn  itself,  it  occurred  to  me,  all  at  once,  to  imagine. 

I  did  not  know  that  Mr.  Cope  observed  ine  further,  or  saw 
that  I  was  still  thinking.  It  startled  me  when  I  heard  him 
say,  unexpectedly,  "  Well?"  And  I  looked  up  to  see  that  he 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  179 

was  speaking  to  me.  At  the  same  time,  Hope  had  fallen  back 
a  little,  and  he  dropped  into  her  place  by  my  side.  Allard 
had  to  go  on  then,  with  the  others.  The  Copes  were  always 
polite. 

I  knew  what  he  meant.  I  like  monosyllables.  I  like  brief, 
snatchy  talk.  I  can't  bear  a  person  who  begins  like  a  law}Ter's 
deed,  upon  every  topic,  with  a  "  Know  all  men  by  these  pres- 
ents," and  goes  on  with  whereases  and  aforesaids. 

It  was  like  a  little  whet  to  a  knife,  that  "  Well  ? "  —  it 
sharpened  and  brightened  me  up. 

"  Half-a-dozen  things,"  I  said,  answering  what  I  knew  he 
meant  to  ask.  "  The  old  woman  that  had  her  skirts  cut  off, — 
the  draggle  and  rags,  I  suppose,  —  and  wondered  '  if  it  be  I.' 
Pains  and  pearls,  —  bad  for  the  oyster,  and  yet  the  best 
of  him;  and  an  apple  that  I've,  sometimes  tried  to  get  all  the 
knurls  out  of  before  I  ate  it,  and  then  found  there  wasn't  any- 
thing left  but  a  few  sposhy  crumbs." 

"  Have  you  found  all  that  out?" 

"No.  It's  only  a  translation,  yet.  I  can  read  it,  that's 
all.  I  suppose  I  shall  go  on  digging  out  the  knurls  and  spoil- 
ing the  apple." 

Why  is  it  that  a  certain  part  of  ourselves  comes  readily  and 
inevitably  forth  of  us  in  speech  to  certain  persons  ?  I  should 
never  have  spoken  so  to  Allard,  or  even  to  Richard  Hathaway. 
Perhaps  to  Hope  Devine  I  might  say  some  such  things  ;  but 
just  imagine  me  talking  like  that  to  Miss  Chism  !  And  hei'e 
was  a  man,  a  stranger,  far  above  me  every  way,  of  whom  I 
was  afraid  when  I  stopped  to  think  about  it,  and  something  in 
him  laid  hold  of  my  secret,  inmost  feeling  and  drew  it  to  the 
light.  Out  there,  it  began  to  look  impertinent.  I  colored  and 
stopped. 

"It's  a  good  thing  to  adopt  a  trouble,"  said  Grandon 
Cope. 

"  Borrow ! " 

"  No.  Grow  round  it,  as  the  roots  grow  round  the  stones. 
Or  as  the  prettiest  things  in  pleasure-grounds  come  of  the 
disfigurements  that  could  not  be  got  rid  of ,  old  stumps  made 


180  HITHERTO : 

into  pedestals  for  flowers'  and  vines,  and  rocks  heaped  all 
over  with  lovely  plants  that  flourish  nowhere  else." 

"  That's  more  translating.  And  the  same  is  in  homelier 
things.  I  think  I  do  like  a  dress  better  after  I  have  turned 
and  darned  it,  or  spilled  something  on  it  and  got  the  spot  out." 

"  Ladies  used  to  wear  patches  for  beauty-spots." 

"But  then  —  the  patches  weren't  blisters!"  Along 
breath  came  in  between  the  two  parts  of  my  sentence. 

Mr.  Cope  looked  at  me  earnestly.  He  laughed,  at  the  same 
time ;  but  the  look  came  through  the  laugh,  from  very  kind 
and  understanding  eyes.  It  was  as  if  he  saw,  over  my 
shoulder,  all  at  once,  what  book  it  was  out  of  which  I  was 
translating.  I  wonder  it  did  not  seem  more  strange  to  him. 
He  could  not  have  had  a  copy  of  his  own,  anywhere,  that  he 
had  ever  learned  a  lesson  from.  I  thought  so  then ;  later,  I 
have  almost  come  to  the  belief  that  it  is  the  primer,  and  that 
the  whole  school  learns  it. 

"  To  go  back  to  the  beginning  of  our  interpretations,"  he 
said.  "Did  you  know  it  is  sometimes  easier  to  carry  both 
hands  full  than  one  ?  " 

"  Two  pails  of  water,  with  a  hoop  round  them,  — yes  ;  but 
then  I  couldn't  carry  one  pail  —  far." 

"Only  a  little  basket,  with  some  cake  in  it?  Well,  we 
shall  be  glad  of  the  cake,  when  we  get  to  the  top.  What  do 
you  think  is  in  my  basket  ?  " 

"  Something  a  great  deal  better  than  mine.  I  am  sure  of 
that." 

"  It  is  heavier.     See ! " 
.     "  Yes.     But  you  are  bigger  and  stronger." 

"  Shall  I  —  show  you?  "  He  finished  the  sentence  so,  after 
a  break.  I  think  he  was  going  to  say  something  different  at 
first,  but  remembered  that  we  were  talking  in  metaphors.  I 
think  he  was  going  to  ask  if  he  should  help  me  carry  mine ; 
and  he  was  not  a  man  to  make  a  foolishness  like  that.  His 
very  fancies  were  true,  and  fitted  themselves  to  no  absurdi- 
ties. I  did  not  think  of  all  this  then,  though. 

He  lifted  the  lid  a  little,  and  showed  me,  lying  in  layers 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  181 

among  soft,  snow-white  cotton,  great  rosy  peaches  from  his 
father's  hot-houses. 

"  "We  don't  know  each  other's  burdens,  —  the  weight  or  the 
beauty  of  them ;  and  we  don't  often  know  what  is  inside  our 
own.  We  shall  find  that  out  when  we  get  to  the  top." 

"  What  a  jumble  we  have  been  talking  !  "  he  began  again, 
after  a  minute  in  which  I  had  found  nothing  more  to  say. 

"And  yet  it  has  been  all  one  thing,"  I  answered.  "  I  am 
very  much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Cope." 

"  For  letting  you  see  the  peaches  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  We  are  almost  up,  now.  Feel  the  breeze.  That's  the  air 
that  never  quite  gets  down  into  the  valleys,  but  only  sweeps 
over  the  crests." 

Mr.  Cope  took  off  his  straw  hat,  and  stood  still  a  moment. 

We  had  come  out  into  the  "  thinning  ; "  where  there  were 
open  spaces  of  crisp  turf,  and  rocky  knolls  bare  to  the  winds 
and  the  sunlight.  The  pine-trees  stood  here  and  there  in 
groups.  We  had  spread  ourselves  as  we  ascended  into  this 
out  of  the  closer  path.  Mr.  Cope  and  I  had  got  away  to  the 
right  of  the  others,  and  had  had  our  talk  mostly  to  our- 
selves. 

"  O  Mr.  Cope  !     Here  is  the  jasper ! " 

I  picked  up  a  piece  at  my  feet.  A  great  rock  cropped  out 
of  the  sod,  with  the  rich,  dull  red  upon  it  that  could  be  fretted 
to  such  a  lustre. 

The  old  thought  came  back  to  me  again. 

"  Perhaps  you  can  tell  me,  now,"  I  said. 

"Perhaps.     What?" 

"  About  the  meanings.  Jasper,  and  sapphire,  and  chalce- 
dony ;  emerald,  sardonyx,  sardius,  and  chrysolite ;  beryl, 
topaz,  chrysoprase,  jacinth,  and  amethyst.  I  want  to  know 
them  all,  —  the  twelve  stones :  the  wall  of  the  New  Jerusa- 
lem." 

He  stood  with  his  bared  head  lifted  up  in  the  fresh  breeze, 
against  the  clear  sky.  Something  noble  came  into  his  face, 
listening  to  what  I  said.  It  was  the  answer,  dawning. 

"  We  want  to  know  them  all,  —  yes  ;  if  we  can  be  worthy. 


182  HITHERTO: 

But  it  is  hard  reading,  some  of  it.  We  should  skip  some  of 
the  lines  if  we  had  our  way.  We  should  build  a  low,  poor 
wall,  of  but  one  stone  perhaps.  See  !  This  crimson  that  lies 
at  the  beginning,  — it  is  the  color  of  passion,  suffering.  Out 
of  the  crimson  we  climb  into  the  blue,  —  that  is  truth  and 
calm.  Beyond,  is  the  white,  glistening  chalcedony,  for  purity  ; 
and  next,  flashes  out  the  green,  —  the  hope  of  glory.  Then 
the}7  mingle  and  alternate,  — the  tenderness,  and  the  pain,  and 
the  purifying  ;  it  is  the  veined  sardonyx  stands  for  that,  —  the 
life-story. 

"The  blood-red  sard  is  the  sixth  stone,  —  the  whole  trium- 
phant love  that  contains  and  overwhelms  all  passion ;  the 
blessedness  intense  with  its  included  anguish.  It  is  the 
middle  band  ;  the  supreme  and  central  type  ;  crowning  the 
human,  underlying  the  heavenly.  Then  the  tints  grow  clear 
and  spiritual ;  chrysolite,  golden-green,  touched  with  a  glory 
manifest ;  the  blending  of  a  rarer  and  serener  blue,  — the  won- 
derful, sea-pure  beryl.  Then,  the  sun-filled  rapture  of  the 
topaz ;  and  chrysoprase,  where  flame  and  azure  find  each 
other,  —  the  joy  of  the  Lord,  and  the  peace  that  passeth 
understanding.  In  the  end,  the  jacinth  purple  and  pure 
amethyst,  into  which  the  rainbow  refines  itself  at  last,  hint- 
ing at  the  far  distance  of  ineffable  things.  —  For  it  is  the  story 
of  the  rainbow,  too." 

"  I  knew  it  was  !  " 

"  It  was  a  sublime  sentence  that  was  written  on  the  cloud  to 
stand  forever.  Colors  have  always  been  types.  How  strange 
it  is,  that  living  amidst  signs  and  emblems,  —  living  by  them 
as  we  do,  since  the  lifting  of  an  eyelid,  the  quiver  of  a  muscle, 
the  sweep  of  an  arm,  the  gesture  of  a  finger,  speak  more 
meanings  from  the  commonest  man  to  man,  than  books-full 
of  words,  —  we  should  trouble  and  dispute  about  speeches 
and  writings,  as  if  nothing  had  been  given  to  the  world  except 
by  these.  We  look  a  man  in  the  face  to  understand  him. 
Why  not  look  in  God's  face  ?  " 

That  was  grand.  Because  it  was  spoken  so  simply,  look- 
ing right  in  my  face,  as  he  had  said  all  the  rest ;  not  with  the 
changed  tone  of  a  half-ashamed  solemnity,  such  as  the  name 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  183 

of  God  comes  in  with,  if  it  come  at  all,  to  most  men's  talk. 
The  beauty  of  his  thought  led  directly  up  to  this.  Of  the 
truth  and  the  power  of  it  nothing  else  could  come,  and  noth- 
ing less. 

"  '  Like  a  jasper  and  a  sardine  stone.'  Do  you  remember 
where  that  comes  in  again?" 

I  knew  the  Revelation  almost  by  heart. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  answered.  "  '  He  that  sat  upon  the  throne 
was  to  look  upon  like  a  jasper  and  a  sardine  stone,  and  there 
was  a  rainbow  round  about  the  throne  in  sight  like  unto  an 
emerald.'  It  is  the  same  thing,  right  over." 

"  Yes,  and  the  meaning  proved.  Out  of  two  or  three  wit- 
nesses every  word  shall  be  established.  How  full  the  words 
are  of  the  depth  and  glow  that  require  such  a  rich  similitude  ! 
The  wall  of  stones  was  like  an  alphabet ;  it  gave  you  the  key 
to  the  whole  radiant  language.  Without  such  key  to  its 
types,  no  wonder  people  puzzle  over  the  Apocalypse.  It  is  a 
strange  denoting  of  the  aspect  of  the  Son  of  man,  taken  at  the 
mere  letter  ;  '  like  unto  a  jasper  and  a  sardine  stone,; '  but  read 
them  as  the  fervent  attesting  colors  of  Suffering  and  Love, 
and  how  full  the  Face  and  Presence  are,  so  briefly  likened ! 
Did  you  ever  think  how  much  color  says  to  us?  How  it  puts 
in  mind  of  things  ?«ispeakable  ?  The  depth  of  the  sky, — 
how  should  we  know  it  without  the  blue  ?  The  rest  and  the 
shadow  of  the  earth  and  the  great  trees,  —  what  would  they 
be  without  the  green  ?  So  that  a  mere  ribbon  comes  to  give 
a  feeling ;  of  freshness,  or  brightness,  or  coolness,  or  warmth, 
or  softness.  To  me,  words  have  colors.  Standing  for  things 
and  for  meanings,  they  take  the  shades  of  them.  People's 
names  have  tints,  by  which  I  like  or  dislike  them." 

"  That  seems  strange,"  I  said.  "  To  me,  words  and  names 
have  shapes  and  attitudes,  rather.  Think  of  '  reach,'  for  in- 
stance. You  can  feel  the  stretch  of  it.  And  '  grasp,'  and 
'  leap,'  and  '  crouch,'  and  '  grovel,'  and  '  lift.'  You  can  see 
the  posture  of  them  all." 

"  Those  are  words  of  attitudes.  But  you  are  right,  as  well 
as  I.  '  Tender,'  and  '  true,'  '  strong,'  '  brave,'  '  great,'  *  tiny  ; ' 
you  can  see  the  delicate  touch,  the  unswerving  line,  the  swell 


184  HITHERTO: 

and  tension  of  the  muscle,  the  bare,  free,  unflinching  brow, 
the  expansiveness  and  the  holding,  the  mite  that  you  look 
closely  or  downward  to  perceive.  I  can  read  them  so,  but 
they  come  to  me  most  easily  in  shades.  It  is  just  what 
I  said  before.  Words  are  only  the  arbitrary  signs.  We  talk 
and  think  in  living  types.  If  language  does  not  suggest 
these,  it  has  no  meaning.  '  In  the  beginning  was  the  Word, 
and  the  Word  was  with  God,  and  the  Word  was  God.'  How 
can  people  look  and  not  read?  And  in  the  crowding  and 
fulness  of  it  all,  ask  for  '  a  sign'  ?  " 

This  was  so  real,  —  so  different  from  the  usual  set-apart 
tone  of  anything  that  approaches  topics  of  faith,  —  that  it 
filled  me  full  of  a  new  and  wonderful  warmth  and  glow  of 
perception  and  gladness.  I  wondered,  too,  at  Grandon 
Cope ;  for  I  had  heard,  even  then,  other  things  of  men  of 
learning,  and  of  the  Anti-Christ  of  Science. 

I  spoke  something  of  this  to  him. 

"  I  thought,"  I  said,  "  that  scientific  men  came,  often,  to 
doubt  —  could  not  reconcile  —  these  things  ?  " 

" How  do  you  look  at  a  picture? " 

I  did  not  quite  consciously  comprehend ;  but  I  had  an 
intuition,  by  which  I  answered  to  his  meaning. 

"  Into  it,"  I  said. 

"  Exactly.  Some  people  measure  the  lines,  and  fit  a  theo- 
rem to  the  proportions,  and  analyze  the  pigments  and  the 
mixtures.  That  is  one  finding  out,  —  the  mechanical  how 
of  it,  perhaps  ;  the  thing  itself  is  taken  differently." 

We  came,  now,  upon  the  great,  round  top  of  Red  Hill. 
The  sun,  far  down  the  west,  sent  horizontal  shafts  of  light 
upon  us,  and  below,  the  woods  and  fields  lay  in  cool  masses  of 
shadow.  The  quick  breeze  found  us  out  here,  too,  search- 
ingly  ;  and  we  were  glad  of  the  shawls  we  had  brought  with 
us.  The  dr}',  warm,  lichen-cushioned  rocks  gave  us  pleasant 
seats,  and  the  turf  itself  was  our  table.  We  had  hot  tea  in 
ten  minutes,  out  of  the  spirit-boiler.  We  drank  this,  and  ate 
fruit  and  cake,  and  hardly  knew  which  we  tasted,  or  where 
the  cheer  and  strength  came  in  from,  —  these,  or  that  which 
we  took  in  at  our  eyes  ;  all  the  hill-sides,  and  meadows,  and 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  185 

grain-fields,  and  river-bends,  and  gleams  of  ponds,  and 
glooms  of  woods,  and  grouped  villages,  and  scattered  farm 
buildings ;  the  wide,  round,  perfect  sphere  of  the  blue  sky, 
with  its  clouds  turning  golden  and  bronze  in  the  light  and 
"shadow  of  the  coming  sunset,  and  soon  to  be  gorgeous  with 
crimsons  and  purples  and  saffrons,  and  intenser  flecks  of  glory 
that  would  not  be  color,  but  pure  flame  ;  the  greens  that  turned 
black,  and  indigo,  and  blue,  and  faintest  violet,  with  the  lines 
of  farther  distances,  hill  lapping  over  hill,  and  forest  stretch- 
ing behind  forest,  till  —  there  was  the  word  of  the  rainbow 
again,  with  its  near  and  far,  its  first  and  last. 

"Are  you  comfortable,  Anstiss?"  Richard  came  and 
asked  of  me.  He  had  been  fetching  water  from  the  little 
spring  on  the  other  side  the  brow ;  opening  baskets,  help- 
ing Hope,  spreading  shawls  ;  making  everybody  comfortable. 
Now  he  came  and  sat  down  beside  me. 

"Isn't  it  beautiful?" 

All  my  thought  of  the  last  half  hour  was  in  my  question, 
to  my  own  feeling ;  but  how  should  it  have  been  to  his  ? 
What  was  there  in  my  commonplace  word,  to  convey  it? 
Why  should  I  have  been  disturbed  and  disappointed  when  he 
only  said,  in  answer :  — 

"  Yes ;  there's  no  better  outlook  in  forty  miles.  It's  a 
pleasant  country  ;  and  a  pretty  pleasant  world,  it  seems  to  me 
sometimes,  Anstiss." 

How  did  I  know  how  much  might  be  behind  that?  What 
right  had  I  to  judge  his  thought  as  less  than  mine  ?  He  had 
got  his  pleasant,  peaceful  word  out  of  it  all,  as  straight  from 
God  as  any.  In  his  eyes  there  was  a  rest  and  a  gentleness 
that  were  reflections  of  that  which  spoke  about  us,  in  the  air, 
the  light,  the  color,  and  the  stillness.  There  was  something 
large  and  strong,  too ;  the  expanding  of  some  soul-horizon  ; 
the  waiting  for  some  hour  of  night  and  loss  that  might  come 
between  him  and  the  day.  I  look  back,  and  see  it,  now. 
"  Diversities  of  gifts  ;  but  the  same  Spirit ;  "  why  could  I  not 
read  it  then  ? 

"  I  have  found  out  about  the  jasper,  Richard." 


186  HITHERTO : 

I  would  have  brought  him  my  new  treasure  of  meaning 
and  feeling,  as  a  child  brings  home  a  gift  to  show. 

I  had  asked  him  the  question  years  before  ;  of  course  he 
had  forgotten  it. 

"Jasper?   oh,  yes;    there's  plenty  of  it,  the  common  red* 
kind.     But  sometimes  you  can  find  a  piece  of  ribbon  jasper, 
with  the  white  streaks  in  it.     Have  you  seen  that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  there  it  is  again ;  that's  the  meaning  of  it,  Richard. 
That's  the  chalcedony  ;  that  comes  afterward  ;  that  is  rare 
with  the  red.  Oh.  how  beautiful  it  all  is  !  " 

He  looked  at  me  with  only  a  sy mpathy  for  the  fact  of  my 
pleasure. 

I  was  restless  that  he  should  know.  I  forgot  how  it  had 
come,  by  no  forcing,  but  a  gentle,  natural  following,  and  a 
gradual  help  and  answering,  to  me.  I  forgot  that  I  had  not 
begun,  —  that  I  could  not  begin,  with  another,  perhaps,  at  the 
very  beginning  which  had  told  itself  to  me.  I  forgot  that  he 
was  reading,  all  the  while,  another  leaf,  it  might  be,  of  the 
self-same  book. 

"I  mean  about  the  wall  in  Revelation.  The  types  of  the 
stones,  and  the  way  things  come  after  each  other.  Suffering 
and  love,  and  truth,  and  purity ;  the  red  jasper,  and  the  blue 
sapphire,  and  the  white  chalcedony ;  then  the  brightness  of 
the  emerald,  and  the  mixed  sardonyx,  and  the  deep-red  sard  ; 
and  purer  green,  and  clearer  blue, —  gladness,  and  fulfilment, 
and  rest ;  and  topaz,  and  chrysoprase,  —  the  joy  unspeakable 
and  the  perfect  peace ;  and  jacinth,  and  ametlryst,  the  colors 
of  the  heavenly  beyond,  — like  those  far-off  hills." 

He  did  not  know  the  wall  by  heart,  as  I  did,  stone  by  stone, 
and  the  colors  of  them  ;  the  unity  and  the  coherence  of  the 
interpretation  could  not  appear  to  him  as  it  did  to  me,  in  the 
moment  of  my  rapid  utterance  of  what  had  become  so  famil- 
iar. He  sat  and  looked  quietly  at  the  far  purple  hills,  and  let 
me  be,  as  it  were,  with  my  fancies  and  my  enthusiasm. 
-  "  Don't  you  see,  Richard  ?  "  I  asked,  impatiently. 

"  I  don't  know.  There  seems  to  be  a  good  deal  of  it,"  he 
said,  in  his  pleasant,  half-jocose  fashion.  "  I  suppose  you 
might  make  out  almost  anything,  that  way." 


A    S  TO  JIT    OF    YESTERDAYS.  187 

"  You  couldn't  make  things  that  would  hold  together,  unless 
they  were  true.  Any  more  than  you  could  tell  that  two  and 
two  made  four,  if  once  in  a  while  they  happened  to  make  five. 
Or  if  apples  did,  and  peaches  didn't." 

"  Figures  always  turn  out  according  to  rule.  They  can't 
make  mistakes." 

"  They're  only  the  signs  of  things  that  fit  together.  And 
when  you've  got  the  things,  you  don't  stop  for  the  figures. 
You  can  see  that  two  apples  are  just  as  many  again  as  one 
without  doing  the  sum.  It's  the  seeing  that's  the  beginning 
of  it,  and  of  everything.  When  a  good  many  people  have 
seen  the  same  thing  it  becomes  a  piece  of  knowledge,  to  be 
handed  about.  When  a  good  many  people  have  had  the  same 
thought,  or  the  same  feeling,  and  they  come  of  the  same 
causes,  or  hang  together  and  explain  each  other,  then  they 
make  words  for  them,  and  the  words  hang  together ;  and 
there's  something  reasonable  and  established  ;  something  that 
nobody  stops  to  dispute  about.  But  you've  got  to  believe 
your  own  or  somebody  else's  eyes  to  begin  with ;  inside  or 
outside  eyes,  whichever  it  may  be.  How  do  you  know  what 
blue  is,  at  all?" 

"  I  don't, "  said  Richard,  simply. 

"But  it  gives  you  a  kind  of  a  feeling.  It's  one  thing,  and 
red's  another.  One  seems  soft,  and  the  other  bright.  And 
soft  and  bright  are  feelings,  too,  that  everybody's  had  till 
they've  grown  into  "  words.  Richard,  everything  is  a  word. 
And  the  meaning  is  the  whole  of  it.  All  creation  is  one  great 
talk,  I  think." 

Richard  Hathaway  laughed  out.  It  jarred  with  me  ;  I  meant 
something  grand  and  solemn.  I  did  not  want  to  assume 
grandeur  and  solemnity  ;  I  hated  to  seem  to  try  to  be  eloquent. 
I  put  it  into  common  words  ;  but  I  meant  what  I  think  the 
fir;  t  chapter  of  John's  Gospel  means.  And  Richard  thought 
it  was  only  funny. 

I  got  up  and  left  him  sitting  there,  and  went  over  and  joined 
Hope,  to  help  her  put  up  the  cups  and  plates. 

Twenty  minutes  after,  whe*n  the  last  mellowness  of  the  sun- 
set was  gliding  away  through  the  heavens  and  over  the  hill- 


188  HITHERTO: 

sides,  and  we  began  to  speak  of  going  home,  I  saw  him  sitting 
there  still,  by  himself,  with  his  head  against  the  palm  of  his 
h.and. 

I  wondered  if  I  had  hurt  him.  I  could  not  bear  to  do  that, 
he  was  so  kind  and  true.  I  went  over  to  him  again,  and 
spoke. 

"  Come,  Richard  ;  we're  going.  What  are  you  making  out 
now?  It's  your  turn,  you  see." 

He  took  me  by  surprise,  looking  up  at  me  in  the  way  he 
did.  His  face  was  full ;  if  his  lips  had  spoken  it  all,  I  felt  as 
if  I  might  have  trembled  before  it.  But  all  he  said  was  :  — 

"  You  mustn't  think,  Anstiss,  that  I  don't  like  your  thoughts. 
Or  to  have  you  tell  them  to  me.  I  was  only  pleased  at  your 
little  ways  of  saying  things." 

It  was  not  much  ;  but  it  was  so  sorry  and  patient.  As  if 
he  had  been  wholly  wrong,  and  I  had  not  been  rude  and  un- 
friendly. As  if  his  laugh  had  been  anything  but  the  honest 
happiness  he  always  felt  with  me  and  in  my  ways  from  the 
time  I  was  a  little  child  until  now.  He  spoke  the  word 
"  pleased "  as  the  New  England  country-folk  do  speak  it, 
meaning  amused,  —  touched  gently  with  a  sense'  of  droll  apt- 
ness. It  is  another  remnant  of  the  old  decorums  that  kept 
all  things  chastely  under.  I  have  heard  a  plain,  quiet  woman, 
subdued  by  long  Puritanic  proprieties,  say  of  an  occurrence 
utterly  and  convulsively  funny,  — "I  was  so  pleased.  I  had 
to  smile." 

There  is  something  quaint  and  gentle  in  the  word  so  used  ; 
it  just  expressed  Richard's  meaning  ;  he  was  kindly,  even  ten- 
derly amused  ;  at  my  way,  not  at  the  thought  I  had  and  tried 
to  speak.  But  when  I  had  wanted  him  to  seize  the  thought 
and  help  me  on  with  it,  ah,  there  we  were  back  again,  at  the 
very  thing  that  had  offended  me. 

"  I  didn't  mind  the  laughing,  Richard,  if  you  had  only 
cared ! " 

"  Perhaps  I  do  care ;  but  I  can't  tell  much  of  my  carings, 
Anstiss." 

Something  made  his  lips  shut  tightly  after  he  said  this,  as  if 
otherwise  they  might  have  quivered. 


A    STORY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  189 

How  different  he  was  from  Grandon  Cope ;  how  little  he 
satisfied  me  in  one  part  of  my  .nature ;  how  thoroughly  he 
calmed  and  rested  me  in  another  ! 

"  Never  mind,  Richie,"  I  said.  "  We  won't  talk ;  we'll  just 
have  a  good  time." 

But  for  all  that,  when  we  got  into  twos  and  threes  again, 
going  down  the  hill,  Allard  was  with  me.  I  think  Mr.  Gran- 
don Cope  made  a  step  or  two  toward  me  once,  as  if  he  had 
something  to  say,  and  would  have  joined  me ;  but  it  seemed 
as  if  he  knew  it  would  interrupt  Allard,  for  he  glanced  at  him 
and  turned  away.  There  was  a  kind,  brotherly  look  in  his 
eyes  as  he  did  so. 

I  was  reading  very  fast,  then.  A  great  deal  came  to  me 
that  I  did  not  spell  out  as  it  came,  but  took  rather  as  we  take 
in  the  sense  of  whole  printed  pages  sometimes,  hardly  con- 
scious of  the  word-points  that  we  catch,  but  only  of  a  general 
complexion.  Everything  was  making  me  more  and  more  at 
home  with  the  Copes,  as  a  family  ;  making  me  more  and  more 
to  feel  how  cordially  they  all  received  and  liked  me,  and  how 
little  I  could  spare  that  intercourse  and  liking  out  of  my 
life. 

"  Grandon  is  delighted  with  you,  Anstiss,"  said  Allard,  as 
we  walked  forward  together.  And  then  he  went  on  to  tell  me 
what  a  splendid  fellow  Grandon  was,  and  what  a  difference  his 
coming  back  had  made  at  home.  "  We  are  a  whole  family, 
now,  I  can  assure  you.  We  never  seem  to  be  quite  that  when 
Gran'  is  away.  Everybody  goes  to  him  with  their  questions 
and  their  plans.  He  puts  us  all  at  our  best,  too,  you  see.  He 
brings  out  the  colors,  like  a  strong  light.  Yes,"  he  repeated, 
pleased  with  the  simile  he  had  hit  upon, —  "  that  is  precisely 
it.  Everything  comes  out ;  and  everything  shows  up  for  what 
it  is,  when  he  is  present.  He  looks  at  a  thing,  and  you  see  it, 
before  he  speaks,  just  as  he  sees  it,  if  you  hadn't  noticed  it 
was  there  before. —  I  am  so  glad  he  likes  you  ;  but  I  knew  he 
would." 

Allard  was  just  as  frank  as  a  boy ;  he  spoke  his  thought 
without  measuring  beforehand  what  it  might  reveal.  There 
was  a  great  deal  evident  in  tlieue  words  of  his.  I  came  close 


190  HITHERTO: 

enough,  then,  to  be  counted  among  the  things  of  home  to  be 
judged  of  in  this  strong  light  of  Grandon's  presence,  and  it 
was  a  great  deal  to  Allard  how  I  might  be  judged  ;  as  if  he, 
in  some  way,  were  responsible  for  me.  It  almost  seemed  as  if 
some  significant  matter  were  already  sanctioned  and  settled. 
Certainly  it  appeared  that  this  was  all  that  Grandon  Cope 
could  possibly  have  to  do  with  it  or  me.  As  Allard's  friend  — 
as  the  friend  and  intimate  of  all  —  he  approved,  and  found 
reason  in  me ;  and  for  this  Allard  was  glad. 

I  was  glad  also,  and  proud ;  at  that  moment,  to  be  among 
them  so,  and  to  look  up  with  them,  claiming  in  part,  as  they 
did,  his  help  and  companionship,  was  a  great  and  a  sufficient 
thing.  I  never  felt  more  drawn  toward  Allard,  more  moved 
to  stretch  forth  my  hands  to  him  and  have  them  filled,  to  re- 
joice in  the  good  of  his  life  and  take  it  into  mine,  than  now. 
I  thought  of  the  home,  of  Laura  and  Kitty,  of  brotherhood 
and  sisterhood  like  theirs.  They  had  among  them  all  I 
craved ;  I  was  almost  ready  to  seize  it  as  it  came  to  me ;  I 
could  never  dream  of  coming  closer  to  it  than  this.  The 
heart  that  has  gone  hungering  and  thirsting  for  many  things 
can  hardly  compare  possible  satisfyings  when  first  it  catches  a 
near  flavor  of  great  joy. 

I  was  very  glad  that  Grandon  Cope  was  pleased  with  me. 
Everything  seemed  bright  and  happy.  I  was  willing  that  Al- 
lard should  quite  keep  me  to  himself,  and  talk  on,  gayly  and 
affectionately.  Life  looked  pleasant  before  me  that  evening ; 
I  hardly  feared  the  turnings  of  the  way.  It  would  all  come 
out  right ;  there  would  be  guide-boards  to  follow. 

The  great  midsummer  moon  poured  her  light  down  through 
the  Red  Hill  woods  ;  it  sifted  and  shimmered  through  the  pine 
branches,  and  baptized  the  old  gray  rocks  with  beauty.  Our 
way  was  at  once  fair  and  dim  ;  we  walked  in  a  seclusion  and 
a  glory.  We  heard  the  sweet  night-sounds  of  the  forest ;  the 
winds  and  the  wakeful  insects,  and  the  trickle  of  tireless 
water ;  the  stir  and  spring  of  growing  interlacing  things.  I 
was  held  and  touched  with  the  exquisite  pervading  charm ; 
Allard  Cope  was  at  my  side,  and  Grandou  walked  behind, 
looking  down  upon  us  two  together,  kindly  and  well-pleased. 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  191 

In  all  this  I  hardly  knew  where  my  happiness  most  lay ;  but  I 
was  happy.  I  began  to  think  that  I  could  always  be  con- 
tent. 


THE  SILENT  SIDE. 

She  talked  of  Suffering  and  of  Love,  of  the  stones  in  the 
wall  of  the  New  Jerusalem ;  she  could  not  see  the  colors  a 
human  soul  was  taking  at  her  very  side.  How  the  Crimson 
touched  it  even  then  ;  how  it  was  entering,  perhaps,  the  bap- 
tism of  its  agony. 

They  preach  of  a  great  Vicarious  Anguish,  suffered  for  the 
world.  Do  they  not  know,  rather,  that  it  was  suffered  in  and 
with  it ;  that  it  was,  instead,  an  Infinite  Participance  and  Sym- 
pathy ;  that  the  anguish  was  in  the  world,  and  the  Love  came 
down,  and  tasted,  and  identified  itself  with  it,  making  of  the 
ultimate  of  pain  a  sublime,  mysterious  Rapture?  That  it  is 
far  more  to  feel  the  upholding  touch  of  One  who  goes  down 
into  the  deep  waters  before  us,  and  to  receive,  so,  some  little 
drops  that  we  can  bear  of  the  great  Chrism,  than  to  stand 
apart,  safe  on  the  sunny  bank,  while  He  passeth  the  flood  for 
us,  bridging  it  safely  for  our  uncleansed  feet  forever  ?  That  — 
not  this  —  was  the  Pity  and  the  Sacrifice ;  that  is  the  Help 
and  the  Salvation  ;  the  Love  and  the  Pain  enfold  us  together  ; 
that  is  what  the  jasper  and  the  crimson  mean  ;  the  first  refrac- 
tion where  the  Divine  Light  falls  into  our  denser  medium  of 
being ;  the  foundation-stone  of  the  heavenly  building.  The 
beginning  of  the  At-one-ment ;  till,  through  the  thinning  angles 
and  the  tenderer,  peacefuller  tints,  our  life  passes  the  whole 
prism  of  its  mysterious  experience,  and  beyond  the  far-off 
violet,  at  last,  it  rarefies  to  receive  and  to  transmit  the  full 
white  light  of  God. 

What  did  she  know  of  this,  but  some  faint  perception  of  the 
beauty?  She  talked  of  things  in  which  he  had  not  learned; 
she  handled  signs  that  were  strange  to  him  ;  all  the  while,  he 
was  beginning  upon  the  things  themselves  they  stood  for. 

"  A  talk,  all  of  it,  —  is  it?  "  Richard  Ilatluivvay  said  to  him- 


192 


HITHERTO: 


self,  sitting  there  with  his  head  upon  his  hand,  and  the  sun 
going  down  before  him  ;  and  all  the  air  turning  red.  "  I  think 
it  is  more  a  doing  and  a  bearing.  —  What  is  it  the  Bible 
tells  about  '  patterns  of  things '  ?  They  are  patterns  of  things, 
maybe,  and  meanings,  as  she  says  ;  but  a  pattern  fs  a  thing 
to  do  by.  It  isn't  just  a  picture  to  look  at.  Ever}'  man  has  got 
his  own  wall  to  build.  After  some  pattern  that  we  don't  know, 
as  likely  as  not.  We're  working  most  according  to  some  rule 
that's  above  our  work,  perhaps,  when  we  think  most  we're 
having  our  own  way,  or  taking  our  chance..  I  don't  expect 
to  understand  the  whole  project  of  it ;  I  can't  make  out  an 
architect's  plan  and  specifications,  and  I  don't  know  as  I'm 
meant  to.  I'm  only  a  journeyman  builder,  and  the  stock's 
furnished.  I  must  take  it  up  as  it  comes.  I  know  very  well 
what  stone's  laid  upon  me  now  to  carry." 

Beyond  that,  the  unspoken  wording  ceased ;  there  was  no 
shape  of  thinking  for  what  came  next.  The  weight  was  upon 
him,  that  was  all ;  and  there  was  the  soul-strain  as  of  one 
who  taketh  up  his  cross.  Yet  the  burden  was  transfused  all 
through  with  the  flush  of  his  great  courage.  That  turns  the 
dead  rock  into  the  living  preciousness,  fit  for  its  setting  in  the 
high  and  everlasting  places. 

His  thought  had  been  as  true  and  grand  as  hers.  What  if 
he  had  only  uttered  it  as  it  came,  if  indeed  it  came  in  time  ? 
Grand  thoughts  do  not  always  arrive  -for  the  parade  and  the 
review  ;  it  is  for  the  fight  that  they  reserve  themselves  in  na- 
tures like  his.  You  see  he  was  not  busy  with  his  thinking,  but 
his  living. 

How  he  should  bear  and  wait.  How  he  should  let  her 
prove,  and  try,  and  receive,  and  choose.  How  he  should 
stand  always  ready  and  never  in  the  way. 

If  all  this  fell  short,  after  all,  of  filling,  and  satisfying,  and 
shaping  her  life  ;  if  there  remained  to  her,  by  and  by,  only  a 
friendship,  tantalizing,  perhaps,  in  the  different  sphere  it 
reached  from  to  her,  and  contrasted  with  her  own  ;  if  the  rest, 
and  the  home,  and  the  certainty  were  wanting  still,  —  then, 
perhaps,  her  womanhood  might  turn  to  him  and  to  his  fireside 
as  her  childhood  had  done.  Then,  perhaps,  heart  and  hearth, 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  193 

waiting  so  long  with  a  great  faithfulness,  might  take  her 
blessedly  to  their  glow  and  peace. 

Out  in  the  west  the  crimson  was  softening.  The  beautiful 
liquid  gold  was  beginning  to  overflow  in  the  far  deeps,  and  to 
touch  the  little  flecks  of  clouds  till  they  burned  like  stars. 

Something  transfigured  itself  like  that  in  Richard  Hatha- 
way's  thought.  A  far-off  rapture  lit  and  shone  along  the 
horizon. 

"  God  help  me  !  "  The  cry  stirred  in  his  soul  that  did  not 
pass  his  lips.  The  cry  of  a  great  hope  and  a  tender  longing  ; 
his  pain  had  been  silent. 

Then  had  come  the  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and  the  voice 
in  his  ear  :  — 

"  Come,  Richard  !  " 

And  then  he  had  looked  up  with  his  face  that  was  full. 

How  could  she  guess  at  what  the  man  was,  from  the  few, 
plain,  kindly  words  he  uttered?  How  could  she  translate  that 
fulness  and  that  shining,  or  make  them  seem  in  keeping  with 
his  homely  phrase  ?  How  could  the  gentle,  constrained  excuse 
convey  the  regret,  generous  and  tender  even  to  a  remorse,  that 
moved  him,  thinking  how  he  had  disappointed  her  and  sent 
her  away  ?  Or  the  love,  held  back  and  panting,  that  if  it  had 
spoken  itself  out  might,  as  she  divined,  have  made  her 
tremble? 

How  should  she  know  what  pain  came  back  to  him  when 
she  said  :  — 

"  Never  mind,  Richie  ;  we  won't  talk,  —  we'll  just  have  a 
good  time." 

That  was  all  he  was  good  for !  She  would  keep  her 
thoughts  for  people  who  could  answer  them.  When  she  was 
in  a  childish  mood  she  would  come  to  him  to  have  a  good 
time !  That  was  what  her  word  sounded  like  to  him. 

The  glitter  had  gone  from  the  cloud-specks.  They  were  turn- 
ing cold  and  gray.  The  gold  had  poured  itself  all  out  and  had 
been  wasted.  The  moon  was  burnishing  her  disk  brighter  and 
brighter  overhead,  as  the  sun-rays  died.  They  would  have 
her  light  to  go  home  with,  and  their  day  would  be  done. 

Hope  came  to  Richard  ;  she  had  nobody  else  to  walk  with, 
13 


194  HITHEETO: 

after  Allard  Cope  and  Anstiss  moved  away.  And  so  the 
party  broke  itself  into  its  twos  and  threes,  and  the  moonlit 
woods  said  this  to  one  and  that  to  another  as  they  went 
down. 


A   STORY  OF  YESTERDAYS.  195 


CHAPTER  XV. 

OUTSIDE. 

I  SAT  in  the  east  doorway,  looking  out  into  the  front  yard. 
The  north-west  wind,  coming  down  from  the  mountains,  cool 
over  the  house-top,  met  the  morning  sunshine  slanting  down 
through  green  boughs,  and  made  it  pleasant.  The  grass  was 
all  over  leaf-shadows  and  flecks  of  bright,  shifting  light. 

A  quick  little  flash  of  life  —  the  tiniest  of  striped  squirrels 
—  played  in  and  out  the  old  stone  wall  between  the  door-yard 
and  the  Long  Orchard.  The  cat  was  chasing  the  shadows  ; 
springing  after  them  as  they  shifted,  crouching  herself  in  the 
cool  grass,  leaping  now  and  then  up  a  tree-trunk.  I  sat 
watching  them. 

Just  made  and  meant  for  them  —  all  of  it  ?  Doubtless  it 
seemed  to  them  so.  Men  build  stone  walls,  and  squirrels 
come  and  live  in  them.  What  do  they  care  for  other  uses  ? 
From  the  squirrel-point  there  are  none. 

The  great  trees  have  grown  these  fifty  years,  or  a  hundred  ; 
and  the  sun  shines  down  through  the  far  heaven,  and  there 
are  beautiful  little  flickering  lights  and  shades  in  every  little 
forest  and  garden  corner.  The  cat  thinks  it  was  all  got  up 
for  her.  It  falls  in  with  her  life  and  suits  it.  Her  nature 
answers  to  it.  So  it  was  got  up  for  her,  or  she  for  it,  which 
is  the  same  thing.  Every  life  is  a  centre,  and  all  things  are 
made  for  it,  just  as  if  there  were  no  other.  .The  leaf  plays 
for  the  cat,  and  the  cat  for  me. 

These  thoughts  came  dreamily  through  my  mind,  and  I  half 
received  their  significance. 

"  How  the  little  chinks  are  filled  up  !  "  I  said  to  Hope,  who 
came  out  behind  me.  "  And  how  much  room  there  is  for 
everything ;  and  everything  has  all  the  room  !  " 


196  HITHERTO: 

Hope  waited,  as  she  always  did  when  I  began  at  the  end 
and  talked  backward. 

"  That  cat  has  got  the  whole  world  to  herself  this  morning. 
And  there's  an  inch-or-two-long  brown  squirrel,  that  can  as 
much  as  ever  handle  a  cherry-stone,  and  a  wall  of  great  rocks 
was  built  half  a  lifetime  ago  for  him  to  come  and  live  in. 
Miles  of  wall,  all  over  the  towu,  if  he  likes,  —  full  of  safe  lit- 
tle hiding-holes  at  every  step,  —  for  his  travels.  Everything 
suits  so  much  more  than  it  was  made  for.  Everything  thinks 
it  is  the  main  thing." 

"  Everything  is  the  main  thing,  and  everj^thing  else  goes 
round  and  round  it.  Every  little  world  takes  the  whole  sky 
to  hold  it,  —  after  all.  Nothing  is  outside,"  said  Hope. 

People  don't  say  "  after  all,"  unless  they  have  had  a  ques- 
tion or  an  experience.  What  had  Hope  been  on  the  outside 
of? 

"  That  reminds  me,"  she  said  again.  "  I  must  go  over 
this  afternoon  to  the  Polisher  girlses." 

That  was  the  way  they  spoke  in  Broadfields,  of  four  old- 
maiden  sisters  who  lived  on  the  outside  of  everything.  The 
"Polisher  girls"  they  had  been  called  for  fifty  years;  and 
"the  Polisher  girlses"  was  the  rustic  possessive  when  people 
spoke  of  their  home  and  belongings.  Everybody -had  come  to 
use  it,  they  who  knew  better  and  they  who  did  not. 

On  the  outside  of  the  town,  —  on  the  outside  of  their  gen- 
eration,—  on  the  outside  verge  of  life;  outside  of  love  and 
beauty  and  the  interest  and  fashion  of  passing  and  growing 
things  ;  outside  of  expectation  for  anything  new,  or  more,  in 
this  world  ;  and  yet  Hope  thought  of  them  when  she  said  that 
everybody  was  in  the  middle. 

Lodemia,  or  Lodemy,  as  the  Yankee  termination  made  it, 
braided  woollon  mats,  wove  rag-carpets,  and  quilted  quilts. 
Mrs.  Hathaway  had  a  great  coverlet  of  patchwork  ready. 
She  and  Martha  alwaj^s  kept  a  basket  full  of  scraps,  and  cut 
them  up  into  geometrical  shapes,  and  illustrated  science  with 
them  in  the  piecing  together,  in  the  long  summer  afternoons 
and  winter  evenings. 

I  said  I  would  go  to  the  Polisher  girlses,  too. 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  .       197 

Something  that  happened  made  me  remember  the  day  and 
them,  as  they  were  that  day,  to  this  hour. 

They  just  touched  my  life  in  a  chance  way ;  they  are  all 
buried  and  gone  now  ;  they  had  counted  more  than  their  three- 
score years  then  ;  but  like  the  wall  whose  builders  were  dead, 
and  the  trees  whose  seed  sprang  into  young  tenderness  longer 
ago  than  men  can  remember,  something  of  theirs  was  meant 
for  me.  Smallness  and  foolishness,  —  clefts  and  shadows  of 
old  patience  and  slow,  strong  living  ;  among  many  things, 
these  are  also  even  wrought  and  grown  for  those. 

I  did  not  know  when  or  what  I  was  taking  ;  it  did  not  seem 
to  me  as  if  the  two  things  by  which  I  remembered  that  sum- 
mer-day had  to  do  with  each  other  ;  the}7  stayed  side  by  side  in 
my  mind  with  a  seeming  unfitness  and  impertinence,  even  ;  one 
meant  so  much  to  me,  and  the  other  so  little  ;  I  came,  by  and 
by,  to  put  them  together. 

We  drove  over  in  the  wagon,  Hope  and  I ;  half  an  hour's 
jog  around  the  outskirts  of  the  town ;  in  the  borders  of 
woods,  and  along  field-roads  where  there  were  no  fences  ;  out 
on  a  high  edge  of  table-land,  we  came  to  it,  —  a  low,  old 
unpainted  house,  set  on  a  brink,  off  which  you  looked  in  an 
ama^e  as  to  how  you  had  gained  such  height,  upon  a  wide- 
rolling  greenness  of  hill-swells  that  were  like  the  waves  of  a 
sea,  and  lost  themselves  in  a  hazy  horizon-distance  that  de- 
ceived you  into  truly  thinking  that  there  an  ocean-line  began. 

Outside  of  everything  it  surely  was.  The  road  stopped 
here  ;  there  were  half-a-dozen  other  road-branches,  by  whose 
forks  we  had  come;  that  stopped  in  like  manner  among  these 
hill-pastures,  where  you  could  see  scattered,  here  and  there, 
white  houses  and  grain-fields.  They  were  like  islands  ;  the 
paths  to  them  all  viewless  among  the  tossing  green,  as  tracks 
across  tumultuous  waters.  Four  women,  for  fifty  years,  iu 
that  solitary  place  ;  that  was  the  Polisher  girlses  story. 

AVe  went  in,  and  upstairs,  where  Lodemy  was  busy  with 
her  braiding  work,  finishing  a  great  oval  of  bright  colors. 

The  whole  house  was  clean  to  a  sweetness  that  let  3*011 
smell  the  dry  fragrance  of  its  old  timbers. 

There  were  b'are,  white  floors,   with  dark,  worn  veins  and 


198  HITHERTO: 

knots  that  patterned  them.  The  best  room  had  a  bonghten 
carpet ;  strips  of  rag-weaving,  and  rounds  and  ovals  of  gay 
braid  were  laid  down  here  and  there  by  bedsides,  and  before 
dressing-tables  ;  there  were  enormous  quilts  of  tiny  patch- 
work, and  white  spreads  knit  in  shells.  A  dark  little  middle  bed- 
room opened  mysteriously  off  the  staircase,  and  beyond  into 
the  long,  sloping  garret  odorous  with  herbs  and  warm  sun- 
shine. 

It  was  like  going  back  through  the  half  century  past,  be- 
yond which  these  girls  had  been  born  and  stopped.  Stopped, 
so  that  their  very  girlhood  embalmed  itself  about  them  ;  mum- 
mied them,  all  four,  between  eighteen  and  twenty-five.  If 
there  had  been  a  gap,  —  if  they  had  ever  gone  away,  —  if 
anything — that  the  world  knew  of — had  happened  to  them, 
there  would  have  been  a  measure  for  the  time ;  they  would 
not  have  been  the  "  Polisher  girls." 

But  what  sort  of  life  had  this  been,  that  had  just  stayed  on, 
and  waited,  and  dried  up  like  the  old  seasoning  timbers? 

What  if  my  life  should  stop,  and  be  the  same  for  fifty 
years  ? 

Life  does  not  stop  ;  it  is  death  then  ;  life  goes  .on,  though 
ring  after  ring  of  the  tree-trunk,  and  leaf  after  leaf  itf  the 
spring  times,  should  be  the  same.  There  is  more  and  more  of 
it ;  and  after  a  while  its  multiplied  sameness  is  its  breadth 
and  glory. 

Did  anybody  think  of  this,  looking  at  the  Polisher  girls, 
wearing  their  hair  turned  up  behind,  with  pathetic  uncon- 
sciousness, in  diminished  threads,  just  as  it  had  been  in  its 
young  fulness?  Little  by  little  it  had  dwindled,  and  the 
teeth  of  the  high  tortoise-shell  combs  come  through.  Little 
by  little,  roundness  and  shape  had  fallen  awajr,  and  arms  and 
shoulders  grown  thin  and  flat ;  cheeks  hollowed  above,  and 
become  pensile  beneath  the  jaws  ;  noses  and  chins  sharpened  ; 
white  teeth  discolored,  and  crumbled,  and  vanished ;  old  fin- 
gers that  had  done  much  work,  turned  withered,  and  knobby- 
knuckled.  Where  was  the  breadth  and  glory  that  showed  but 
this?  How  could  their  tree  of  life  stand  in  the  midst  of  the 
garden  ? 


A    STCXY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  199 

Remember  and  Submit ;  Lodemy,  and  Frasie,  standing  for 
Euphrasia,  —  these  were  the  "  Polisher  girlses "  names. 
The  austerely  religious  father  had  chosen  the  two  first ;  his 
wife's  fancy  had  been  permitted  to  indulge  itself  in  the  two 
last. 

Whether  it  were  the  influence  of  her  name,  and  of  careful 
admonitions  to  live  up  t.o  it,  or  her  being  the  eldest,  Remem- 
ber, from  her  childhood,  had  been  the  thought-and-care-taker 
of  the  household  ;  Submit,  the  patient,  satisfied  receiver  of 
things  as  they  were ;  Lodemy  and  Frasie  represented  the 
enterprise  and  imagination  of  the  family. 

"Lodemy  is  rather  changeable  ;  she  and  Frasie  take  notions 
about  things,"  Submit  said  to  us  that  afternoon,  apologizing 
to  Hope  for  the  childishness  of  some  alteration  in  the  placing 
of  an  old  easy-chair  since  she  had  been  there.  Places  were 
all  they  could  vary  ;  things  were  never  substituted  or  renewed. 

"It  makes  such  a  pleasant  seat  by  the  window,  and  leaves 
that  nice,  square,  open  corner  to  stand  round  in.  "We've 
each  of  us  a  room,  now,  Frasie  and  I,  on  our  own  side  of  the 
bed." 

The  high  posts  and  the  curtains  shut  them  off  from  each 
other ;  they  were,  in  fact,  two  dressing-rooms,  with  a  closet 
opening  from  each. 

It  gave  her  all  the  idea  of  spaciousness  that  a  palace 
could  have  done,  this  simple  enlarging  of  a  corner ;  and 
the  brightness  of  the  unworn  carpet,  where  the  chair  had  been, 
was  like  an  addition  thrown  out  upon  the  old  house.  It  was 
quite  as  if  she  and  Frasie  had  a  suite  of  grand  apartments. 

Frasie  took  us  aside  downstaks,  where  a  back  door  opened 
upon  a  slope  of  green,  when  the  nice  tea  was  over  which  they 
would  have  for  us  at  five  o'clock. 

"  'Tisn't  worth  while  to  talk  about  it  before  Member  and 
Mittie  ;  they  don't  enter  into  it ;  but  Lodemy  and  I  we  plan  it  all 
out  together,  and  it's  almost  as  good  as  if  we'd  got  it.  There's 
such  a  look-out  here ;  if  we  had  a  stoop  built  on,  a  good, 
broad  one  you  know,  with  a  roof  and  posts,  and  vines  grow- 
ing up,  creepers  and  morning  glories,  or  even  beans  and  hops, 
things  that  grow  quick,  and  some  grapes  on  the  end,  in  the 


200  HITHERTO  : 

sun.  I  declare  we've  had  it  over  so  much  that  I  can  see  every 
identical  thing,  and  smell  the  grapes  ;  it's  quite  old  in  our 
minds,  you  see,  though  we've  never  got  the  chance  to  do  it. 
We  sit  out  here  when  it  gets  shady,  and  tell  on  about  it  till  it 
seems  real.  As  true  as  j^ou  live,  it's  so  old  now  that  I  think 
it  a'  most  needs  new  shingling  !  " 

"  Only  the  vines  would  get  broken  !  "  reminded  Lodemy. 

"  They  might  be  careful,  I  should  suppose.  People  do  have 
vines  and  new  shingles." 

"  I  think  that's  beautiful !  "  cried  Hope,  her  eyes  shining. 
"  You  can  have  so  many  things  so  !  " 

"  Oh,  I  wouldn't  dare  tell  you  all  Frasie's  and  my  non- 
sense," said  Lodemy,  longing  to  talk  of  it,  and  warmed  to 
delight  by  Hope's  S3rmpathy. 

"  The  houses,  Demie  !  " 

"Whole  houses?  new  ones?"  asked  Hope,  drawing  her 
out. 

"  Yes,  indeed  ;  Frasie's  and  mine.  It's  terrible  silly,  but 
she  and  I  always  have  talked  so,  ever  since  we  were  little. 
Things  might  have  been,  you  know  ;  and  we've  wondered  about 
it,  and  pieced  it  all  out,  till  sometimes  it  seems  almost  as  if 
it  was. 

"  Hers  was  over  there  on  the  hill,  and  mine  among  the  pine- 
trees  in  the  hollow.  Mine's  a  cottage,  and  hers  is  two-story," 
Miss  Frasie  went  on,  lapsing  into  the  present  tense  uncon- 
sciously. "  Mine  is  straw-color,  and  hers  is  white  ;  with  green 
blinds,  both  of  'em.  They're  all  furnished  ;  we've  made  lots 
of  pretty  things  ;  we  used  to  go  about  and  see,  and  hear  tell ; 
and  we'd  always  come  back  and  plan  over  for  ourselves.  And 
then  —  " 

"  Frasie,  you  needn't  tell  everything  !  " 

"  I  don't  know  why,  when  it  might  have  been.  And  they'd 
all  have  been  so  good  and  pretty.  We  named  them  all.  And 
we  know  just  how  they  looked  and  behaved,  and  needed  to  be 
managed.  I'm  afraid,  sometimes,  it  was  making  graven 
images  ;  but  I  did  fairly  come  to  love  them,  certain  true,  I 
did.  I  feel  as  if  I'd  somehow  had  'em  and  lost  'em,  and 
might  find  'ern  again,  yet." 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  201 

How  simple  and  silly  these  old  girls  had  grown,  or  stayed  ! 

"  You  can't  see  anything  that  there  isn't,"  broke  in  Hope, 
positively.  "  Not  just  so,  perhaps  ;  but  somehow." 

That  was  what  she  always  said  ;  and  her  eyes,  with  their 
strange,  golden  color,  always  looked  so  glad. 

All  this  kept  running  in  my  mind  as  we  drove  home  again, 
through  the  shade  and  the  sunset. 

These  old,  singular  women,  artless  as  children,  telling  us 
their  thoughts  ;  these  "  Polisher  girls,"  who  had  lived  on,  not 
outliving  their  young  dreams  ;  who  had  been  "  in  the  middle," 
by  "  seeing,  and  hearing  tell,  and  planning  over  for  them- 
selves ;"  this  word  of  Hope's,  of  things  that  must  be, — 
"  somehow  ;  "  —  with  it  all  mingled  far,  faint,  beautiful  per- 
ceptions of  possible  good  and  joy  that  all  my  life  had  been 
coming  to  me,  as  the  South  sends  up  sweet  breaths  into  the 
chill  and  hardness  of  the  North. 

Somewhere,  and  somehow. 

I  shrank  from  everything  that  was  most  nearly  definite  in 
the  peradventures  of  my  life.  They  were  points  here  and 
there,  of  things  most  beautiful  that  I  had  known  or  imagined, 
that  started  out  upon  me  together,  in  a  picture,  a  vision,  with- 
out a  name. 

I  did  not  stop  to  ask  myself  whence  they  came,  —  all  pleas- 
antness of  pleasantest  days  and  doings  ;  kindness  and  trust, 
such  as  I  had  found  and  rested  in  with  the  Hathaways  ;  knowl- 
edge, and  truth,  and  high  thought ;  beauty,  and  ease,  and 
refinement,  as  I  had  tasted  them  with  the  Copes ;  reliance, 
even  upon  harsh,  strong  sense,  and  stern  right-mindedness,  as 
they  were  with  Aunt  Ildy,  when  one  could  go  with  thon,  and 
not,  by  misdeed  or  misapprehension,  counter ;  cose}r  house- 
keeping and  common  work  even,  as  Mrs.  Hathaway  and 
Martha  and  Lucretia  did  it ;  a  reaching  after  all  into  which 
these  might  crystallize,  making 'a  life  for  me,  —  my  own  and 
not  another's.  A  distillation  of  all  sweet  sense,  and  hope,  and 
glad  accomplishment ;  over  all,  the  awe  and  beauty  and  ten- 
derness of  a  religious  gratitude  and  faith. 

Life  might  be  so  beautiful ;  could  one,  then,  think  and  see 
vividly  nothing  that  was  not  or  that  should  not  be? 


202  HITHERTO  : 

Only  I  remembered  the  four  women  who  had  waited  fifty 
years  ;  with  whom  there  had  been  time  to  have  and  to  lose,  in 
fancy,  a  life-full  of  that  which  had  never  been  given  into  their 
hands. 

Richard  came  out  and  took  the  horse,  and  Mrs.  Hathaway 
met  us  in  the  keeping-room. 

"  There  is  news  for  you,  and  a  note,"  she  said  to  me.  "  Mrs. 
Cope  has  been  here." 

She  took  the  note  down  from  the  frame  of  the  looking-glass. 
It  was  directed  in  Augusta  Hare's  hand. 

Of  all  the  wonders  of  modern  mysticism,  that  which  seems 
to  me  least  wonderful  is  the  clairvoyant  reading  of  sealed  let- 
ters. I  think  I  never  took  one  of  importance  into  my  hand 
without  a  thrill  of  premonition.  It  is  like  looking  into  the 
face  of  one  who  is  about  to  speak.  The  flash  comes  before  the 
sound. 

I  might  have  laid  that  letter  away,  unopened,  and  it  would 
all  have  come  to  me.  I  did  not  wait  for  Mrs.  Hathaway  to 
say  another  word.  A  strange  disturbance  ran  all  through  me, 
as  if  I  felt  it  from  the  ends  of  my  life,  out  of  which  some- 
thing was  wrenched. 

I  knew  not  why  I  should  hate  and  dread  the  news ;  but  I 
did.  I  went  upstairs  and  put  the  note  down  on  my  table,  and 
took  off  my  bonnet,  and  sat  down  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
room.  I  waited  for  it  to  be  an  old  thing,  before  I  took  it  up 
and  looked  at  it. 

In  ten  minutes  it  was  an  old  thing.  I  went  back  to  it  and 
broke  the  seal,  —  a  pretty  gilt  one",  of  perfumed  wax,  —  and 
read. 

Augusta  Hare  was  to  be  married  to  Grandon  Cope. 


A   STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  203 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE   EAST   DOOR AT   NIGHT. 

IT  changed  everything.  I  could  not  tell  why ;  it  had  no 
business  to  ;  but  it  did,  and  I  could  not  bear  it. 

It  was  nothing  to  me ;  it  never  would  have  been ;  I  kept 
srvying  this  over ;  yet  why  did  it  put  me  all  in  a  whirl  to 
think  of?  Why  did  I  feel,  as  it  were,  all  those  possible  fifty 
years  seething  and  stirring  and  protesting?  As  if  a  miserable 
tangle  had  got  into  the  world  just  in  my  little  piece  of  its 
time-pattern,  and  everything  must  break  and  snarl  and  go  to 
shreds  ?  As  "if  an  angel  had  troubled  the  waters  close  beside 
me,  unaware,  and  another  had  stepped  down  before  me? 

A  man  like  this  to  love  a  woman,  and  that  woman  to  be 
Augusta  Hare ! 

She  to  be  the  "  main  thing,"  as  her  manner  was,  among 
the  Copes,  and  in  the  life  of  South  Side  !  Everything  else  to 
go  round  and  round  her  !  Something  was  possible  for  some- 
body, that  I  had  never  even  thought  of,  and  she  had  got  it.  I 
could  not  tell  what  it  was  in  me,  — envy,  hatred,  malice,  all 
uncharitableness,  —  but  something  roused  up  in  me,  and 
raged.  I  could  not  have  it  so.  It  was  not  the  right  thing, 
and  should  not  have  been.  Something  ought  to  have 
interfered. 

A  man  like  this  to  love  a  woman  —  so !  That  he  should 
love  all  great,  true  things  ;  that  he  should  search  for  God,  and 
find  him  in  his  works  ;  that  he  should  lead  others  up  to  these 
high  loves  and  this  holy  reverence,  —  this  was  fit,  and  beauti- 
ful and  blessed  for  all  who  came  near,  and  whom  he  cared  for, 
—  kindly  and  a  little.  I  would  have  been  so  glad  to  be  but 
one  of  these.  But  that  he  should  care  thus,  —  that  a  blessed- 
ness like  this  should  come  down  about  a  woman's  heart  and 


204:  HITHERTO: 

life,  —  so  near  me ;  that  I  should  have  this  glimpse  into  what 
might  be  for  one,  no  better  than  I,  and  never  for  me,  —  it 
tossed  me  in  a  pain  and  unrest  and  rebellion  that  I  could 
neither  comprehend  nor  control. 

She  put  it  on  a  little  bit  of  paper,  in  a  few  common  words, 
as  If  it  had  been  information  of  a  pleasure  party.  She  sealed 
it  up,  deliberately  and  daintily,  with  scented  wax,  and  sent  it 
to  me.  It  was  a  thing  to  thrill  and  flash  from  heart  and  eyes  ; 
to  fill  and  overflow  a  whole  being,  and.  to  touch  others  like  a 
tide  from  heaven ;  to  be  told  as  spirits  tell  things,  and  in  no 
poor  human  words.  If  it  had  been  like  this,  —  if  she  had 
been  like  him,  —  I  could  have  been  glad.  I  should  not  have 
been  reminded  of  myself,  or  had  myself  revealed  to  me.  I 
could  have  folded  my  hands  and  stood  happy  and  humble, 
near  them.  If  they  had  called  me  friend,  —  sister,  —  I  could 
have  walked  with  them  in  Paradise. 

But  I  knew  that  I  knew  him  better  than  she.  I  knew  that 
I —  How  close  it  had  come,  and  how  it  had  passed  me  by,  — 
this  that  I  should  never  have  thought  of! 

I  had  not  loved ;  but  I  had  found  out  that  I  could  have 
loved.  There  was  light  —  blinding  light — on  the  whole  long 
enigma  of  life. 

This  was  all  that  was  to  be  for  me,  out  of  the  fifty,  or  sixty, 
or  seventy  years. 

My  life  was  one  of  the  flawed  and  spoiled  lives ;  and  I  had 
to  live  it  out. 

There  are  thousands  of  these  lives ;  they  have  to  be,  to 
make  up  the  world ;  but  when  one  finds  out  first  that  one's 
own  is  to  be  among  them,  it  is  as  if  the  world  had  been  made 
in  vain.  All  the  j^ears  rise  up  and  resist. 

Take  what  was  left  and  make  the  best  of  it?  I  had  been 
almost  read}*-  to  marry  Allard  Cope.  I  knew  now  that  I  never 
could.  Him,  last  of  all.  He  must  never  ask  me. 

I  might  turn  to  something  tender  and  pitiful ;  a  mother's 
Jove  might  have  comforted  me  ;  but  I  could  not  take  up  with  a 
lesser  and  different  joy ;  at  the  very  side,  too,  of  that  other. 

I  looked  thus  deep  into  myself,  by  that  blinding  light ;  and 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  205 

found  out  this  much  certainly,  that  I  could  not  arrive  at 
before. 

There  is  always  something  to  be  done  next ;  there  is  always 
something  waiting ;  a  soul  cannot  go  off  into  the  deep  with  its 
trouble  and  hide  there,  and  lie  passive  and  crushed,  forgetting 
life  and  flinging  it  behind,  as  it  would  like  to  do ;  the  body 
sits  within  four  walls  of  a  room  in  somebody's  house  ;  and  the 
next  thing  is  to  go  downstairs  again  ;  and  pretty  soon  it  will 
be  dinner,  or  tea,  or  breakfast-time. 

"  Took  to  her  bed."  They  say  this  of  one  who  flings  down 
the  body  ;  it  is  all  one  can  do  ;  there  is  only  the  bed,  or  the 
grave.  I  could  not  take  to  my  bed  for  nothing  that  anybody 
knew  of ;  so  I  must  go  downstairs  ;  I  must  say  something  to 
somebody  about  this  news  that  I  had  got.  I  would  rather  say 
it  in  the  dark,  than  to  go  to  bed,  and  have  to  get  up  and  say 
it  in  the  morning. 

I  went  out  and  stood  at  the  stair-head.  I  wondered  where 
they  all  were,  and  who  I  should  meet  first.  I  would  rather  it 
should  have  been  Richard.  The  old,  trusting  feeling  came 
over  me,  of  how  sorry  he  would  be  to  have  me  sorry. 

I  heard  Martha  singing  and  washing  up  the  tea-things. 
Suddenly,  there  came  a  clattering  crash,  and  a  silence. 
Something  —  a  good  many  things,  one  would  think  —  fallen 
and  broken.  A  thing  that  hardly  ever  happened,  out  of  Mar- 
tha's hands.  It  seemed  as  if  it  happened  now,  on  purpose  for 
me.  At  this  moment  I  can  believe  it  did.  Ah,  if  we  could 
perceive  what  care  is  over  us,  tenderly,  in  small  things, 
smoothing  them  for  our  great  needs,  we  should  feel,  in  the 
midst  of  them,  the  comfort  of  a  Hand  that  is  like  a  mother's  ! 

Everybody  would   be   there   in   a   minute.     When   things 
break  everybody  always  is. 
,    I  heard  Mrs.  Hathaway  start  up. 

"  "Why,  Martha,  do  tell !  "What  are  you  trying  to  do?  "  she 
called  out,  in  a  gentle,  kindly  astonishment. 

"  Well  —  I  haven't  made  out  much,  after  all,"  answered 
Martha,  in  a  stooping  voice,  quite  cool  and  ironical,  as  her 
way  was.  "  I've  only  broken  —  a  tumbler  and  — two  plates, 


206  HITHERTO  : 

and —  nicked — the  teapot-lid.  If  I'd  had  presence  of  mind, 
and  let  go  of  the  pot,  I  should  have  just  done  it." 

Hope  and  Mrs.  Hathaway  laughed,  and  I  ran  downstairs. 

I  went  out  to  the  east  door,  where  I  had  sat  in  the  morning. 
Richard  came  up  to  me  from  the  gate  where  he  had  been 
standing. 

Nobody  had  begun  to  wonder  yet  about  me.  All  my  life 
had  contracted  itself,  with  a  spasm  of  pain,  toward  a  point, 
and  I  had  felt  into  the  years,  and  yet  I  had  only  been  away 
minutes. 

I  was  in  a  hurry  to  speak  then,  in  the  shadow,  since  I  must. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  heard  the  news,  Richard?  " 

"  About  Miss  Hare.     Yes,  do  you  like  it?  " 

"  No." 

To  this  he  answered  nothing. 

"  I  don't  like  it,  Richard,  and  I  don't  want  to  talk  about  it. 
It  spoils  South  Side." 

He  would  take  care  of  it,  now,  for  me.  I  should  not  have 
to  talk  about  it  much. 

"  I'm  sorry  for  that,"  said  Richard.  "  South  Side  is  a  good 
deal  to  you." 

I  wondered  how  much  he  meant  by  that.  I  wondered  if  it 
had  seemed  likely  to  him  that  it  would  come  to  be  any  more 
to  me  than  it  had  been.  If  people  had  thought  that,  it  must 
be  stopped.  I  could  not  stop  it,  now,  too  soon. 

"  It  will  be  all  Augusta,  now.  Everything  is,  where  she  is. 
I  don't  think  I  could  have  her  giving  it  out  to  me  in  little  bits. 
But  that  isn't  it,  entirety.  I  can't  bear  things  that  don't  fit, 
and  that  oughtn't  to  be.  It  makes  me  ache,  as  Martha  says  ; 
as  if  I  knew  better,  and  ought  to  have  helped  it." 

"  Miss  Hare  and  you  were  friends,  though." 

"  Yes.  I  like  Miss  Hare.  There  is  a  very  good  sort  of 
liking  that  just  belongs  to  her.  But  I  don't  worship  her  now, 
as  I  did  once.  And  there  isn't  enough  of  her  to  be  —  "I 
could  not  say  "  Mrs.  Graudon  Cope." 

"  We  won't  talk  about  it,  if  you  please,  Richard.  It  hurts 
me.  South  Side  is  pretty  much  over  for  me  ;  that  is  all."  . 

I  must  have  talked  on,  somehow,  until  I  could  say  something 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  207 

like  this.  Now  it  was  done,  I  could  not  bear  another  word. 
I  only  told  Richard  that  I  was  tired,  and  had  a  headache,  and 
believed  I  would  go  to  bed. 

I  went  round  and  said  good-night  to  Mrs.  Hathaway  and 
Hope,  and  left  Richard  to  tell  them,  if  he  chose,  what  I  had 
said  to  him. 


THE  SILENT  SIDE. 

" '  Pretty  much  over  ? ' 

"  Did  she  really  mean  that? 

"  Only  a  pleasant  place  for  her  that  a  thing  like  this  can 
spoil  ? 

"  She  can't  care  for  him  then.  —  Poor  fellow  ! " 

Richard  Hathaway's  big  heart  really  had  this  in  it  for 
Allard  Cope,  and  it  came  first.  Then,  a  great  throb  of  joy, 
that  could  not  help  itself,  surged  up. 

"  If  I  might  try  now,  after  all.  She'll  have  so  little  left.  If 
I  could  only  give  her  what  she  wants  ! 

"  Why  can't  there  be  enough  of  me,  when  I  would  give  it  all  ? 

"  There  would  be  enough,  at  last,  if  she  could  wait.  It's  the 
pouring  of  the  river  that  makes  the  sea.  It  was  giving  away 
the  little  that  was  all,  that  fed  five  thousand  men. 

"  Five  loaves  and  two  fishes. 

"  I  wonder  what  put  that  into  my  head. 

"  Couldn't  the  Lord  bless  love  as  well  as  bread  ?  Couldn't 
he  make  more  of  me,  for  her?  If  he  bids  me  give,  what  else 
is  it  for? 

"  God  be  good  to  me  !     Make  up  the  lack !  —  " 

He  did  not  know  he  said  it.  The  word  went  straight  up 
out  of  his  soul,  without  lip-shaping.  He  brought  what  he  had 
and  laid  it  at  God's  feet.  There  it  was  grand  and  beautiful, 
touched  with  the  light  of  His  countenance.  A  gift  of  all 
heaven  for  any  woman. 

But  just  because  it  was  a  thing  out  of  the  pure  soul-depths, 
—  no  moulding  of  brain  or  trick  of  speech,  —  it  was  grand  only 
between  himself  and  God.  He  could  not  take  it  in  his  hands 


208  HITHERTO: 

or  on  his  lips  to  Anstiss  Dolbeare.  He  could  only  say  some 
plain,  poor,  faltering  words.  What  should  she  know  by 
them? 

He  could  ask  her  to  come  and  live  at  the  Farm.  He  could 
ask  her  to  be  his  wife. 

Suppose  even  she  should  come?  Suppose  he  might  have 
her,  all  his  life  long,  at  his  side?  All  his  life  long  he  might 
not  show  her  this  unspoken  beauty  of  his  love  that  was  in  him. 
Why  are  souls  set  so  close,  and  yet  so  far?  Why  must  they 
always  be  asking  after  a  sign,  and  no  adequate  sign  be 
given?  Was  that  what  it  meant,  partly?  The  sign  of  the 
prophet  Jonah?  Must  this  heart  of  man  go  down  into  the 
heart  of  the  earth  to  be  shown  forth  clearly  only  at  its  rising 
a.gain  ? 

"  God  make  it  up  to  me  and  to  her !  God  tell  her  what  I 
cannot !  —  " 

All  this  was  in  him,  —  this  perception  and  question  and 
prayer,  without  words.  A  Spirit  moved  with  his  spirit  he 
knew  not  whence,  nor  whither.  By  his  great  love,  his  weak- 
ness and  littleness  touched  the  Everlasting  Strength  and 
Fulness.  So  should  the  river  flow  till  it  should  make  a  sea 
where  a  dry  place  was.  So,  if  she  could  believe  and  wait, 
there  should  be  enough  for  her.  If  only  she  could  perceive 
the  gift,  and  what  it  was  that  came  to  her,  and  cease  to 
hanker  after  the  signs. 

Richard  Hathaway  thought  he  could  say  something  to  Hope 
about  it. 

He  did  not  know  that  if  there  is  a  woman-friend  to  whom 
a  man  can  speak  of  his  love  for  another  woman,  she  may  be 
too  close  to  hear  it  without  a  pain.  But  if  any  woman  could 
stand  close  to  a  man  in  tender  friendship  and  bear  this,  it  was 
Hope  Devine. 

She  came  out  into  the  little  porch  after  a  while,  for  the 
coolness.  They  were  apt  to  sit  there  under  the  trees  these 
summer  nights. 

There  were  bright  stars  in  the  sky,  and  the  long  twilight 
had  not  all  faded  away. 


A    STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  209 

He  asked  her  if  she  would  walk  up  the  Long  Orchard,  to 
the  brook-pasture  wall. 

Mrs.  Hathaway  sat  knitting  in  the  dark,  within.  She 
caught  up  a  new,  invisible  thread,  as  she  heard  them  move 
away  together,  and  knitted  that  also.  Also  in  the  dark. 

She  had  come  to  love  Hope  Devine  as  a  daughter.  She 
could  see  where  there  might  be  a  rest  for  her  boy.  Pretty 
Lucy  Kilham  had  gone  long  ago,  and  that  had  never  been 
anything  but  a  picture  in  the  half-light  of  a  mother's  heart. 
Anstiss  Dolbeare's  restless  nature  gave  her  a  pain  for  her. 
Now  and  then,  Richard's  watchfulness  over  it  gave  her  a 
dread  for  him.  She  looked  at  them  often  as  she  had  looked 
at  them  long  ago,  when  they  talked  about  the  jasper.  The 
way  for  them  both,  still,  she  thought,  was  all  through  Mat- 
thew, Mark,  Luke,  and  John,  before  the  Revelation  should  be 
light  about  them. 

Hope  Devine  she  believed  to  be  one  of  those  with  whom 
God's  grace  began  in  infancy.  She  took  religion  as  she  took 
all  things  else,  into  her  clear,  rejoicing  nature,  where  it 
needed  not  to  be  born  with  a  pang.  She  simply  did  with  a 
gladness  that  which  she  was  allowed  and  admonished  to  do. 
She  could  not  long  for  what  there  was  not  for  her.  She  could 
not  shut  her  eyes,  and  see,  as  she  had  said  in  her  childhood, 
aught  but  what  was  truly  there.  Her  prayers  laid  hold  of 
the  kingdom  of  heaven,  as  her  imagination  of  its  dreams. 
She  did  not  doubt,  or  fear,  or  strive.  She  stood  in  the  sun- 
shine, and  it  illumined  her  through. 

Is  this  a  likening  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven  to  a  vision? 

What  is  a  vision,  but  a  seeing?  We  call  things  dreams 
that  we  may  dare  be  unbelieving  of  them.  We  shut  our  eyes 
and  pray,  and  perhaps  do  scarcely  better.  God  holdeth  him 
not  guiltless  who  taketh  his  name  in  vain.  The  soul  must 
know  that  her  Redeemer  liveth. 

Mrs.  Hathaway  would  have  been  glad  if  Richard  and  this 
girl  could  love  each  other.  So  she  sat  in  the  dark,  and 
knitted  on,  while  the  two  went  up  the  orchard  together. 

He  began  by  telling  her  what  Anstiss  had  said. 
U 


210  HITHERTO: 

"She  does  not  like  it.  It  spoils  her  pleasure- with  the 
Copes." 

After  a  pause,  again,  —  "I  did  not  think  that  that  could 
have  been.  I  thought  —  there  might  have  been  news  of  her 
and  them  —  some  time." 

"  Of  Allard  Cope  and  her,  you  mean?  " 

"Yes." 

"I  thought  she  would  find  out  that  it  could  not  do." 

"  Hope !  I  must  tell  you.  I  was  afraid  of  it.  But  I 
waited  to  see  how  it  would  be.  Do  you  think  I  ought  to  wait 
any  longer  ?  Do  you  think  there  would  b.e  any  use  ?  " 

See  how  he  faltered  with  lip-language.  See  how  little  he 
could  tell  any  human  ear  of  what  his  heart  told  Heaven. 
How  little  he  could  paint  of  the  crimson  and  the  blue,  —  the 
suffering  and  the  truth,  —  into  which  he  had  gone  up,  and 
stood  steadfast. 

This  was  his  whole  story  of  it ;  of  the  red  sunset  that  faded 
into  the  gray ;  of  the  ripe  clover-blooms  that  had  had  their 
June. 

This  was  all  he  had  to  show  for  it ;  for  the  waiting  that 
had  been  as  years ;  because  it  counted  the  years  that  were 
coming,  and  had  been  ready  to  lengthen  itself  into  them, 
silentty,  for  her  sake.  And  for  the  great,  warm  rapture  of  a 
returning  hope,  he  had  only  the  faint  asking, —  "Did  she 
think  it  would  be  of  any  use  —  ?  " 

How  was  such  a  man  as  this  to  woo  the  woman  he  would 
have,  —  would  gjlve  himself  to,  rather?  How  should  she 
ever  know  ? 

But  Hope  Devine  knew.  Because  she  could  shut  her  eyes 
and  see. 

Literally,  it  was  her  way  when  she  wanted  to  see  clear,  to 
put  her  hand  up  over  her  eyes,  and  shut  them,  and  "  think 
hard  ; "  then  "  it  came,"  as  the  rest  of  the  story-book  that  had 
not  been  printed,  but  in  which  she  could  read  things  beyond 
the  "  finis." 

Under  the  trees,  here,  in  the  dusk,  she  stopped  short,  and 
put  her  fingers  up  against  her  brows,  and  bent  her  head,  and 
held  her  eyelids  close.  Richard  stopped  beside  her,  and 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  2ll 

•waited  ;  hushing  himself  and  holding  himself  motionless  after 
that  last  word  of  his,  as  one  does  when  one  has  disclosed  a 
heart-secret ;  as  if  the  whole  air  were  full  of  that  which  had 
gone  forth,  and  a  fresh  vibration  might  flash  into  light,  heaven 
knows,  how  much  more. 

He  understood  her  fashion  also,  and  that  she  would  speak 
presently.  He  listened  for  her  word  with  a  tingling  in  every 
fibre. 

"Not  quite  yet.  "Wait  a  little  more.  For  her  mind  to 
settle  itself  down,  and  things  to  get  where  they  belong.  If 
you  should  speak  like  that  now,  you  would  only  stir  it  all  up 
again.  She  is  just  finding  out." 

That  was  precisely  like  Hope.  Precisely  her  way,  plain 
and  practical,  yet  keen  and  far-seeing.  Seeing  more  than 
she  could  define,  but  grasping  clearly  the  nearest  point. 
"  Put  your  foot  there"  she  said  to  herself  or  to  another,  in  a 
maze. 

No  flutter  and  bewilderment  of  personal  consciousness,  at 
the  kind  of  trust  reposed  in  her,  and  of  all  that  it  suggested, 
far  and  wide.  No  stopping,  even,  to  look  at  herself,  and  see 
how  this  thing  concerned  itself  with,  or  seemed  to,  "her.  All 
that  was  behind  ;  she  might  come  back  to  it ;  but  the  first  im- 
pulse was  outgoing. 

It  calmed  Richard,  and  put  him  at  his  ease.  The  electric 
air  was  stilled  to  an  equilibrium,  without  a  shock.  A  gener- 
ous sympathy  had  taken  in  all  that  had  so  expanded  itself, 
almost  to  a  pain,  between  them,  and  absorbed  it  to  a  single 
thought  that  lay  in  her  mind  no  stranger  than  in  his  ;  a  thing 
true,  and  of  course ;  to  be  kept  sacred,  also.  There  was 
always  this  rest  with  Hope. 

"  I  am  glad  you  know ;  it  has  been  all  my  life  ;  all  my  life 
that  could  have  that  in  it,  I  mean.  It  must  have  something 
to  do  with  hers." 

He  could  say  more,  now ;  he  could  almost  let  that  silent 
heart  of  his  speak  out. 

"  I  am  glad  too,"  Hope  said,  with  the  voice  of  a  spirit  of 
cheer.  "  I  can't  quite  see  how  it  will  all  be,  but  I  can,  almost. 
There  are  beautiful  things  out  in  the  years,  Richard.  Some 


212  HITHERTO: 

of  them  are  always  for  everybody.     And  everybody  is  amongst 
them,  anyway." 

"  Hope !  you  help  me  more  than  any  one." 

Richard  took  Hope's  hand,  and  held  it  fast. 

They  stood  at  the' very  top  of  the  orchard,  now,  where  the 
broad  wall  of  rocks  stopped  them,  over  which  they  looked 
down  the  steep,  green  pasture-side  at  whose  foot  the  brook 
blundered  along,  plashing  up  sweet  breaths  into  the  night-air, 
and  breaking  with  a  song,  sung  over  and  over,  a  little  way 
into  the  great  silence  that  reached  up  to  the  stars. 

"I  would  like  to  help  you — "  and  Hope  ended  there,  and 
did  not  say  the  final  word  that  had  been  coining. 

Why  could  she  not  say  "  always"  ?  Why  did  the  word,  un- 
spoken, stand,  as  it  were,  and  point  with  its  finger,  suddenly, 
down  those  years  where  the  beautiful  things  were,  and  shut 
them  off  with  the  shadow  of  its  pointing? 

She  did  not  wait  to  see.  Hope  could  shut  her  eyes  and 
have  visions.  She  could  open  them  widely,  also,  upon  present 
things,  and  refuse,  with  an  instinct,  to  see  more. 

She  turned  round,  and  faced  homewards  ;  drawing  her  hand, 
by  the  motion,  awa}^  from  Richard's. 

"It  does  have  to  do  with  hers,"  she  said,  going  back  and 
answering  what  he  had  said  before.  "  She  can't  go  quite 
away  from  it.  It  is  in  her  life,  clear  back,  and  far  on.  And 
by  and  by, —  when  she  comes  to  know  what  it  is, —  it  will  be 
like  the  lighting  of  a  lamp,  Richard ;  done  all  in  a  minute, 
and  shining  through  all  the  room." 

Hope  spoke  in  her  peculiar,  quick  way  ;  the  words  hastening 
themselves  with  the  instantaneous  urging  of  her  thought ; 
her  perception  was  so  glad,  so  beautiful ;  there  was  such  joy 
in  perception.  To  seize  sight  of  things  truly,  and  of  how 
their  perfect  and  unerring  relations  lay  ;  to  discern  from  afar 
off  the  must  be,  and  how  this  was  the  evolution  of  a  harmony 
that  whispered  itself  from  the  beginning ;  —  what  if  there 
were  nothing  of  it  all  immediately  for  her,  or  of  her  concern  ? 

She  could  think  of  it  all  more  purely,  more  gladly,  without 
that  touch  of  a  hand;  without  any  reminder  of  herself;  she 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  213 

did  not  try  to  guess  wherefore ;  she  kept  her  soul  straight 
forward,  and  singly  intent,  and  her  act  followed. 

Mrs.  Hathaway  sat  silent  awhile  after  Hope  came  in  and 
her  son  had  gone  upstairs.  And  then  she  put  a  sudden,  plain 
question :  — 

"  What  has  Richard  been  saying  to  you,  Hope? " 

Hope  answered  as  directly. 

"  Something  about  thoughts  of  his,  ma'am ;  which  I  could 
not  tell  again,  you  know.  Not  but  what  he'd  tell  you, —  or 
has,  perhaps." 

"  I'm  willing  he  should  tell  you  his  thoughts,  child.  Only 
take  care  how  you  answer  them.  I  just  wanted  to  let  you 
know  I  ivas  willing  ;  that  was  all.  I  should  be  well  satisfied 
if  you  both  had  something  you  could  tell  me.  I  didn't  know 
bat  it  might  be  coming,  now ;  and  old  folks  are  impatient. 
When  the  candle's  burnt  low,  you  hurry  to  finish  the  chapter.— 
If  it  was  to  be  God's  will,  Hope,  it  would  be  my  mind,  that 
you  should  have  your  home  here  always." 

When  she  had  spoken  it  out  thus,  quite  plainly,  Mrs.  Hatha- 
way leaned  herself  back  again  composedly  in  her  chair,  rock- 
ing gently  to  and  fro,  and  her  knitting-needles  made  their 
clean,  quick  sound  against  each  other.  Otherwise  there  was 
a  perfect  stillness  in  the  dusky  room. 

Hope  could  not  help  the  picture,  now,  that  showed  itself  to 
her  in  a  sudden  flash.  There  in  the  dark,  just  as  if  she  had 
shut  her  eyes  and  called  it  up  of  her  own  accord. 

A  picture  of  sunniness  and  full  content  —  for  some  one  ;  of 
a  strong,  true,  manly  tenderness ;  of  a  wide,  cheery  house ; 
brimful  of  busy  pleasantness  and  loving  cares  ;  of  a  man  and 
woman  leaving  their  young  days  behind,  and  living  on  into 
ripe,  happy  years ;  of  a  story  beginning  over  again  that  had 
begun  over  and  over  here,  before  ;  of  little  Children  growing 
up  ;  of  the  old,  bright  "  mother's  room,"  out  of  which  mother- 
hood should  not  die  away*  of  the  big  work-basket  and  the 
Bible,  used  right  on,  by  somebody,  into  another  old  age  ;  of 
hands-full  and  heart-full,  just  the  same  only  passed  on, — 
household  "  keys  of  the  kingdom  of  heaven"  through  womanly 
apostleship ; — these  were  Xlthe  beautiful  things  out  in  the 


214  HITHERTO: 

years ; "  and  suddenly  Hope  saw  them  plainly  through  Mrs. 
Hathaway 's  plain  words,  —  "It  would  be  ray  mind  that  you 
should  have  your  home  here,  alwaj-s." 

"  Always."     That  had  been  the  word  she  could  not  speak. 

"  More  help  to  .him  than  any  one,  —  always."  Why  was  it 
put  so  distinctly  before  her,  as  something  that  might  be  ? 
When  she  knew  so  well  what  already  was. 

For  a  moment,  between  sure  vision  and  clear  honesty,  she 
was  bewildered. 

And  then  her  faith  came  back.  "  You  can't  see  anything 
that  there  isn't, — somehow"  repeated  itself  to  her.  "Not 
just  so,  but  somehow" 

'.'  Mrs.  Hathaway  —  dear  ma'am,"  she  began  again,  coming 
round  and  standing  in  the  dark,  close  by  the  old  lady's  shoul- 
der, "  there  was  nothing  like  that  in  the  thoughts  he  told 
me.  It  was  nothing  about  that.  Don't  think  about  it  again, 
please,  so.  I  think  I  shall  always  be  just  among  things.  Help- 
ing a  little,  perhaps.  I  think  people  can  be  gladdest,  some- 
times, of  things  that  are  just  a  little  way  off." 

Only  a  glimpse  had  come  to  Hope  Devine,  —  a  glimpse  of 
joy  that  might  have  been  given  ;  a  side-glance  at  a  suffering 
that  she  might  have  taken  home  to  herself. 

Self-love  is  a  burning-glass  that  makes  a  focus  in  the  heart. 
One  can  wait  for  God  without  an  ache  ;  looking  on,  not  inward. 
Hope  never  stopped  to  look  at  herself  till  she  fixed  a  pain. 
She  said  it  was  because  she  could  not  bear  pain.  She  turned 
away  from  it  because  she  must  be  glad.  Wretchedness  would 
kill  her. 

The  next  morning,  when  the  breakfast  work  was  done,  she 
went  up  the  orchard,  alone,  to  get  green  apples,  while  Mrs. 
Hathaway  was  making  fly-away  crust  for  a  beautiful  great  pie. 

Up  the  Long  O*rchard  was  a  walk  to  do  any  one  good,  by 
daylight  or  evening  light.  Now,  the  sun  was  warm  among 
the  fruit,  that  began  to  look  red  and  smell  spicy  on  some  early- 
bearing  trees.  Warm,  here  and  there,  upo'n  the  short,  white 
clover  that  sprinkled  the  close  turf;  while  the  green  branches, 
reaching  from  side  to  side,  made  pleasant  arcades,  in  whose 
groins  the  rare  little  humming-birds  had  come  and  built  their 


A    STORJ    OF   YESTERDAYS.  215 

tiny  velvet  nests  and  flew  murmuring  about  their  young.  These 
long  arcades  of  horizontal  spreading  apple-boughs  stretched 
up  over  the  slope,  aisle  beside  aisle,  across  two  acres'  width  ; 
there  were  three  acres'  measurement  from  the  roadside  to  the 
top  wall ;  it  was  a  noble  planting.  The  turf  was  soft  and 
crisp  under  the  feet ;  the  bees  and  the  humming-birds  made  a 
continuous  happy  thrill  upon  the  air ;  the  air  itself  was  ten- 
derly sweet. 

Hope,  living  always  "  in  the  middle  of  her  pasture,"  felt  the 
delight  of  it  in  the  full  present  moment,  as  she  walked  slowly 
on.  But  up  at  that  top  wall,  built  square  and  flat  with  double 
and  treble  stones,  and  the  filling  in  of  every  stray  pebble  that 
had  been  gathered  carefully  out  of  the  mellow  orchard  soil, 
she  stopped,  sat  down,  and  thoughts  came  to  her.  Partly  out 
of  the  pleasantness  ;  partly  answering  themselves  to  questions 
that  moved  in  the  deeper  life  underlying  and  outreaching  the 
present,  even  in  her  blithely  calm  nature. 

She  had  had  a  glimpse.  She,  as  well  as  Anstiss  Dolbeare. 
Something  just  shown  her  and  withdrawn.  Withdrawn  from 
her  own  hands,  —  the  beauty  and  the  joy  of  it  not  hidden  from 
eyes  that  look  beyond  the  hand-reach. 

She  had  thought  too  little  of  self,  always,  for  anything  to 
have  grown  up  in  her  that  could  turn,  now,  to  an  instant  mis- 
ery. She  had  seed,  for  a  moment,  a  thing  that  might  have 
been.  Only  it  was  not ;  and  that  was  enough  for  her.  That 
which  was  not  given  was  as  if  it  were  out  of  the  world,  for 
her ;  except  that  nothing  was  out  of  her  world,  or  wholly  re- 
fused her,  into  which  she  could  enter  with  that  wide  spirit-ap- 
prehension which  is  the  genius  for  living  all  life.  It  is  the 
meekness  to  which  nothing  is  denied ;  which  blessedly  inherits 
the  earth. 

Not  that  this  nature  of  hers  was  cold,  inert,  incapable  of 
fire  or  passion ;  it  would  only  never  burn  in  upon  itself ;  it 
was  that  divinely  touched  temperament,  to  which  all  fulness 
is  possible,  but  which  can  wait,  finding  such  fulness  in  the 
daily  Will  and  Gift ;  feeling  the  wealth  also,  out  of  which  the 
daily  gift  comes ;  feeding  upon  grains  that  drop  from  an 
exhaustless  storehouse. 


216  HITHERTO: 

Up,  there,  where  she  could  see  out  over'the  Nine  Hills,  as  they 
were  called,  among  which  wound  the  busy  brook  that  was 
almost  a  little  river  of  itself  before  it  poured  into  the  real 
great  river,  and  amid  whose  curves  slept  the  beautiful  double 
Spectacle  Pond,  she  talked  with  herself,  admonishingly,  in  a 
sort ;  as  if  she  knew  things  that  self  might  long  for,  and  that 
should  be  met  with  a  reason  and  a  satisfying  beforehand. 
Because  she  could  not  chafe  and  discontent  herself.  Because 
it  was  the  very  law  of  her  life  to  find  a  cheer,  and  a  sufficiency 
at  once,  before  she  got  restless. 

"It's  enough  to  be  close  to  things,"  she  said.  "It's  only 
really  to  concern  yourself  with  them.  You  haven't  time  to 
live  'em  all,  and  every  one,  for  yourself.  To  know  all  about 
anything  is  to  have  it,  —  the  good  of  it.  I  think  it's  eas}r  for 
the  angels  to  be  happy  so.  They  know,  you  see.  It's  easiest  of 
all,  for  God. 

"  Perhaps  he  shows  us  things,  sometimes,  and  puts  them 
away  again  for  us,  to  give  us  by  and  by,  when  we  are  bigger ; 
as  mothers  do  with  children's  playthings  that  are  too  beautiful 
for  them  to  have  right  off. 

"  If  all  the  sunshine  was  poured  on  us,  we  should  be  blinded 
and  burned.  But  we  can  see  it  on  every  little  spear  of  grass, 
and  in  the  water-sparkles,  and  on  the  hills,  and  the  white 
clouds.  That  is  the  way  we  get  it  all. 

"I'm glad  —  yes,  I'm  glad  —  I'm  amongst  it.  And  I  have 
got  enough ;  or  else,  of  course,  I  should  have  more.  Some- 
thing will  be  coming  by  and  by.  You  can't  have  more  than 
both  hands  full  at  once,  Hope  Devine !  And  both  hands  are 
full." 

Corning  down  slowly,  beneath  the  shade,  picking  up  fair, 
smooth,  delicate  green  apples  into  her  basket  for  the  pie,  she 
came  upon  Richard,  standing  under  the  tree  on  whose  lower 
outmost  bit  of  twig,  in  a  crotch  like  a  child's  thumb  and  finger, 
one  of  the  humming-birds  had  built.  Some  inconceivably 
tiny  life  must  be  nestling  there  in  the  little  soft,  lichen-covered 
ball,  that  one  could  hardly  find,  even  at  the  second  looking  ; 
for  about  it,  in  and  out  among  the  leaves,  darting  in  swift, 
half-viewless  lines  and  sweeps,  fluttered  a  morsel  of  mother- 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  217 

hood  that  dropped  itself  suddenly,  you  could  not  have  seen 
when  or  how,  into  its  cunning  home  ;  only  the  wee  head  and 
the  thread-like  bill,  straight  and  delicate  like  a  pencilling 
upon  the  air,  showing  themselves  as  it  turned,  alert  and  vigi- 
lant, poising  itself  again  for  flight,  after  it  had  done,  goodness 
knows  what,  in  a  flash  of  time,  in  the  wa}^  of  breakfast  or  early 
lunch. 

Richard  was  looking  up  at  it,  watching  it  as  he  did  all  small 
and  tender  things.  A  great  strong  man,  with  a  heart  in  his 
bosom  full  of  its  own  longings  and  questions  and  pains,  with 
room  in  it  none  the  less  for  what  made  that  look  on  his  face 
of  gentle  interest  in  ttu's  least  bit  of  love  and  life,  almost, 
that  could  be  visible  together.  There  was  a  smile  on  his  lips 
and  in  his  eyes,  and  he  stood  motionless  lest  the  atom  should 
be  scared.  He  had  watched  it  so,  day  by  day,  ever  since  it 
came  there.  He  would  not  have  had  it  disturbed  or  hurt  for 
the  whole  value  of  his  orchard. 

He  stopped  here  on  his  way  across  to  a  part  of  his  farm 
bc3rond  the  brook-pasture  where  the  meadow-hay  was  being 
made.  He  had  been  off  among  his  haymakers  .early,  before, 
and  they,  had  breakfasted  at  home  without  him.  He  and  Hope 
had  not  seen  each  other  since  they  walked  and  talked  together 
here  last  night.  There  was  a  deeper  color  for  a  minute  in  the 
fresh  red-brown  of  his  cheek  as  she  came  near. 

"  Good-morning,  Hope.  It's  a  good  day  for  the  hay,"  he  said. 

"  It's  a  good  day  for  everything,"  said  Hope,  brightly.    "It's 
a  day  to  be  real  sure  and  happy  in,  I  think." 
.   "It  seems  like  a  day  for  everything  to  go  right  in,  doesn't  it  ?  " 

"  Everything  will  go  right,  Richard,  to-day,  or  some  day." 

"  Hope ! "  cried  Richard,  impulsively,  "  you  are  my  dear 
little  friend !  " 

He  could  as  well  be  shy  with  a  sunbeam  as  with  Hope. 
Her  words  and  her  look  were  like  a  radiant  warmth  to  him, 
that  drew  him  out. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  be  that,  Richard.     Thank  you  !  " 

He  met  her  clear,  golden  eyes  for  an  instant,  as  she  said 
this,  her  face  turned  frankly  to  his.  There  was  joy  and  truth 
in  them  ;  honesty  and  a  tender  peace. 


218  HITHERTO: 

His  tall  head  bent  down  kindly  toward  her. 

"I  shall  never,"  he  said,  "  have  anything —  " 

"  Much  better  than  such  friendliness  -as  yours,"  was  the 
meaning  of  what  was  coming.  It  was  the  feeling  in  him,  and 
the  feeling  trembled  in  his  words. 

"When  a  man  and  woman  get  so  far  as  this  it  might  be  very 
easy  for  them  to  get  farther.  Things  might  be  so  that  this 
gentle  friendliness,  so  felt  and  owned,  should  come  back  to 
fill  a  possible  chill  and  deprivation.  Many  a  woman,  standing 
between  two  as  Hope  stood,  would  have  been  not  unmindful 
or  even  improvident  of  this. 

But  the  man  of  slow  speech  faltered  again  over  his  thought. 
Honest  Hope  stopped  him  before  he  gave  her  that  which  she 
might  have  waited  for  and  taken. 

"  You  will  have  it  all"  she  said.  "  lean  feel  it  coming  for 
you.  I  am  certain  how  it  will  be.  Certain." 

She  said  it  to  herself  as  much  as  to  him.  Keeping  some- 
thing down  so,  that  never  should  come  up.  Turning  her  back 
upon  something  that  she  would  not  so  much  as  look  at. 

"  I  won't  —  I  won't  —  I  won't  —  I  won't  —  I  won't !  "  pulsed 
itself  in  her  resisting  thought,  as  she  ran,  presently,  down 
toward  the  house  with  her  apples  for  which  Mrs.  Hathaway 
would  be  waiting. 

"  I  won't  —  I  won't  —  I  won't  —  "it  went  on  underneath, 
while  she  talked  busily  as  soon  as  she  got  in,  and  flew  about 
for  knife  and  dish,  and  hurried  to  pare  and  slice,  and  asked 
questions,  and  set  Martha  chattering,  and  would  not  by  any 
means,  for  half  an  hour  after  that,  let  a  silence  or  a  thought- 
fulness  return  upon  her. 

It  went  out  of  her  so,  whatever  it  was  that  might  have 
tempted  her.  She  never  knew -its  form  or  face  or  prompting. 
Only  its  shadow  had  cast  itself  before  its  coming,  and  she  had 
outrun  it.  Souls  are  kept  so,  in  a  celestial  ignorance,  that 
will  not  know. 

This  was  the  girl  who,  six  years  before,  had  run  with  all  her 
childish  might  awa}'  from  a  pleasure  she  was  not  sure  that  she 
might  take. 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  219 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

TELLING  AUNT   ILDY. 

"  I  WOULD  tell  Aunt  Ildy,"  Hope  said  to  me. 

Tell  Aunt  Ildy ! 

But  the  more  I  thought  of  it,  the  more  it  seemed  the 
only  thing  and  the  best. 

She  would  blame  me  ;  but  I  could  not  bear  my  own  blame 
any  longer.  I  could  almost  solicit  harshness  as  a  relief ;  as 
one  presses  and  grinds  an  aching  tooth.  I  was  to  be  disposed 
of,  too ;  I  was  verily  in  sore  perplexity  where  to  put  myself. 
I  could  not  stay  any  longer  at  the  Farm  ;  I  could  not  go  home, 
and  let  things  be  just  as  they  had  been.  Nobody  could  help 
me  much,  unless  it  were  Aunt  Ildy. 

She  was  coming  out  that  very  afteroon  to  tea. 

It  had  been  a  hard  week  with  me  since  I  had  heard  that 
news.  Troubles  had  come  thickly.  Everything  hurried  to  a 
crisis. 

Allard  Qope  came  over  the  very  next  day,  and  wanted  to 
drive  me  in  to  South  Side,  to  take  tea  and  see  Augusta. 

It  was  well,  in  one  way,  that  there  was  more  than  one  dis- 
tastefulness  in  this.  I  could  let  a  part  of  my  unwillingness 
be  seen. 

"  What  shall  I  do?"  I  cried,  in  a  whisper,  to  Mrs.  Hath- 
away, catching  her  at  the  keeping-room  door,  on  my  way  back 
to  the  parlor  where  Allard  was.  "  I  don't  want  to  go;  with 
him  —  so." 

"  My  dear,  if  you  do  go,"  said  Mrs.  Hathaway,  with  placid 
deliberation,  looking  at  me  over  her  spectacles  in  her  gentle, 
discerning  way,  "  you  must  be  ready  for  any  questions  that 
he  may  choose  to  ask  you." 

"O  Mrs.  Hathaway!"  I  gasped,  in  my  despair,  while  I 


220  HITHERTO: 

trembled  suddenly,  and  a  hot  shame  poured  its  crimson  up  till 
my  eyes  brimmed  with  the  pain  of  it.  I  shut  the  door  behind 
us,  then  ;  for,  after  that,  there  must  be  more  said. 

"  Don't  say  so, — please!" 

"I  don't  say  it,  Anstiss.  It  says  itself.  Haven't  you 
known  what  you  wanted  to  do  about  this?" 

"  There  hasn't  been  anything  that  I  could  help.  I  couldn't 
tell.  You  see  I've  known  them  always,  and  they've  all  been 
kind.  There,  and  here,  Mrs.  Hathaway,  have  been  my 
pleasant  places.  All  I've  had.  But  I  don't  want — O  Mrs. 
Hathawa}^,  what  shall  I  do?  "  It  came  back  to  the  first  be- 
seeching question. 

"  Did  he  ever  take  you  to  ride  ?  " 

"  No.  There  was  never  anything  that  I  could  help  ;  only 
little  things,  like  all  the  rest." 

"  This  is  different,  then.     You  must  stop  here." 

"  But  what  can  I  say  to  him?  All  my  life  to  let  him  be 
such  a  friend,  and  then,  all  at  once  —  oh,  dear !  It's  hardest 
for  MS,  isn't  it,  Mrs.  Hathaway?  " 

"  It  would  have  to  be  a  worse  '  all  at  once,'  you  see,  dear. 
Yes  ;  it  is  pretty  hard  for  us.  But '  right '  is  '  can,'  always." 

"  Wrong  is  can't.  That's  as  far  as  I  can  get.  The  other 
part  is  dreadful." 

"  You  ought  to  go,  now,.  Anstiss,  dear ;  the  promise  is  for 
everything :  '  It  shall  be  given  you  in  that  same  hour  what 
you  shall  say,  and  how  you  shall  speak.'  Only  look  straight 
at  the  right,  and  believe  in  the  Help." 

I  held  .up  my  face  toward  her,  —  very  pitifully  it  must  have 
been,  for  there  were  tears  in  her  eyes  as  she  kissed  me.  And 
then  1  had  to  open  the  door,  and  walk  across  the  hall  to  Allard 
Cope. 

There  was  such  an  awful  difference  between  the  Allard  of 
to-day  and  the  Allard  that  I  had  just  liked  to  be  with  in  :ill 
our  bright,  pleasant,  common  ways,  before.  A  thought  in  a 
man's  heart  like  that  which  I  could  no  longer  ignore  in  Allard 
Cope's  for  me,  makes  his  presence  terrible.  Terrible,  even 
though  one  is  glad,  until  the  thought  is  spoken,  and  there  can 
no  longer  be  a  separate  presence  or  a  separate  thought. 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  221 

"  I  am  very  sorry  I  have  had  to  leave  you  waiting.  But  I 
don't  think  I  can  go  back  to  South  Side  with  you.  I  don't 
feel  well  to-day,  indeed." 

There  was  more  than  that  in  my  face,  though  my  face  must 
have  confirmed  my  words.  I  saw  the  trouble  that  was  there 
reflected  in  Allard's.  A  trouble  and  a  chill  came  into  his. 

After  all,  a  word,  even  altogether  aside  from  the  point,  can 
do  it.  I  was  to  blame.  I  might  have  done  it  before,  more 
kindly.  I  ought  to  have  known  my  own  mind.  They  were 
right  about  it.  Aunt  Ildy  was  right..  I  had  no  business  to 
wait,  and  say,  How  can  I  tell  what  may  be  ?  I  should  have 
let  what  was  be  seen.  If  I  had  looked  straight  at  the  right 
from  the  beginning,  and  believed  in  the  Help,  this  —  so  bad 
as  this  —  would  not  have  been.  I  stood  like  a  culprit  before 
Allard  Cope. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  he  said.  "  My  mother  and  Augusta  will  be 
sorry." 

"  Indeed,  indeed,  I  am  sorry  too."  The  words  came  from 
a  deep  place  in  my  heart,  and  my  lips  trembled,  do  what  I 
would,  as  I  spoke  them.  I  felt  myself  pale  and  sad  as  I 
looked  at  Allard,  and  held  out  my  hand.  "  You  are  all  so 
kind  to  me  ;  too  kind  ;  I  never  was  worth  it." 

He  knew  that  I  was  repentant  for  more  than  my  refusal  of 
his  kindness  of  to-day.  One  needs  only  be  true.  The  truth 
comes  out,  caring  nothing  for  words.  Any  or  none,  it  is  all 
the  same.  He  knew  at  that  moment  that  he  might  not  "  ask 
me  any  question  that  he  chose."  At  any  rate,  not  now.  A 
man  goes  away  and  thinks  over  things  like  these,  and  reasons 
them  into  such  shape  as  he  will,  according  to  his  tempera- 
ment and  the  strength  of  his  purpose.  It  might  not  be  all 
done  with,  yet,  by  any  means.  But,  for  just  now,  it  was 
averted. 

"With  a  few  more  sentences  of  regret  and  courtesy  on  his 
part,  he  was  gone,  presently.  I  had  sent  him  away ;  I  had 
begun  the  hard  work  that  I  must  do,  and  the  pain  of  my  pun- 
ishment was  in  my  heart. 

The  next  day  after,  Augusta  came  herself.     Grandon  had 


222  HITHERTO  : 

been  obliged  to  go  down  to  H ,  and  she  had  taken  the  car- 
riage and  come  out. 

I  kissed  her,  and  gave  her  my  good  wishes,  of  course,  as 
well  as  I  could.  And  she  put  herself  in  the  high  light  of  a 
very  pretty  picture  for  me,  and  told  me,  graciously,  many 
things  out  of  her  romance.  And  then  she  urged  me  about 
coming  to  South  Side,  and  pressed  me  close  as  to  my  refusal 
of  the  day  before. 

"  It  won't  quite  do,"  she  said.  "  There  are  times,  even, 
when  a  woman  can't  have  a  headache.  You'll  lose  every- 
thing, Anstiss,"  she  ended,  at  last,  plainly,  "  if  you  don't 
take  care." 

Then  I  broke  out  passionately  :  — 

"I  hope  there  isn't, — I  wish  to  Heaven,  Augusta,  there 
weren't  anything  to  lose !  " 

She  just  sat,  petrified. 

Now,  at  any  rate,  she  knew  what  I  meant. 

"At  this  last  minute,  Anstiss,  —  you  won't  have  Allard 
Cope?" 

"  Oh,  don't !  "  I  cried,  as  if  my  body  had  been  wounded. 
"What  right  has  everybody  to  put  it  so?  He  never  asked 
me  ;  he  never  said  a  word  like  that ;  he  never  shall." 

"  Then,"  said  Augusta,  getting  up  with  a  quiet,  distant 
displeasure,  "you  have  been  exceedingly  wrong  —  for  years." 

She  was  one  of  the  family,  now.  She  was  going  to  be  Mrs. 
Grandon  Cope.  She  was  going  to  be  Allard's  sister. 

They  would  all  think  like  that.  They  had  come  out  of 
their  way  to  be  so  very  good  to  me,  —  they  had  meant  me  a 
life-long  good,  —  and  this  was  what  I  had  done. 

She  went  away,  and  left  me  very  unhappy.  But  I  could 
cry,  and  let  my  eyes  be  red.  They  knew  what  I  had  to 
worry  me.  Neither  they,  nor  I  myself,  need  look  further  than 
that.  I  could  fling  myself  on  the  bed,  and  be  miserable  to 
my  heart's  content. 

Mrs.  Hathaway  came  up  from  her  dairy-work,  which  was 
just  done,  with  the  perfume  of  it  around  her.  She  had  been 
working  up  rolls  of  fresh,  sweet  butter,  and  she  had  had  her 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  223 

little  dairy-lunch,  —  a  glass  of  rich,  yellow  buttermilk.  She 
brought  one  up  to  me,  and,  seeing  how  I  was,  set  it  down  on 
the  table,  and  came  over  to  my  side.  Her  breath  was  like 
the  clover  breath  of  kine,  and  her  soft,  housewifely,  motherly 
hands  were  fragrant  from  their  delicate  employ,  as  she  stooped 
over  and  laid  her  fingers  on  my  flushed  forehead,  smoothing 
away  the  hair. 

"Augusta  is  so  safe,  and  satisfied,  and  hard,"  I  said,  out  of 
my  sobs,  and  my  pillow,  and  my  crumpled  pocket-handker- 
chief. "  It's  so  easy  for  her  -to  blame.  She  ought  to  blame 
herself,  too ;  it  has  been  half  her  doing." 

"  We  ought  all  to  think  of  the  beam,  dear.  It  might  ac- 
count for  a  good  many  of  the  motes." 

"  I  do  think  of  the  beam.  I've  been  selfish,  and  foolish, 
and  hateful.  I  can  never  get  over  it.  I've  lost  half  the 
good  of  my  life,  and  spoiled  other  people's  good.  And  there's 
nothing  left." 

"  That's  never  true,"  said  Mrs.  Hathaway,  "  and  we 
haven't  any  right  to  say  it.  That's  the  biggest  beam  of  all, 
because  it's  unbelief.  All  the  rest  of  your  life  in  this  world 
is  left ;  and  all  heaven  ;  and  all  God.  He  is  behind  and  be- 
fore. He  can  go  back  of  the  thing  that  troubles  us." 

"  He  don't  alter  it,  though.    It's  past  and  done." 

"  He  sees  our  repentance  before  we  come  to  it  ourselves. 
It  all  stands  together  with  Him.  You  don't  know  what  his 
mercy  has  done,  answering  the  prayer  that  was  to  be." 

"  Oh,  if  we  could  pray  backwards  !  "  I  hid  my  face  deeper 
against  the  pillows  for  a  moment,  as  I  said  this,  and  then  I 
turned  suddenly  and  confronted  her. 

"  But  you  don't  believe  such  things  as  this,  Mrs.  Hath- 
awa}'.  You  believe  in  dreadful  justice.  You  think  some- 
body must  be  punished." 

"  I  know  there  is  pain  in  the  world,  because  of  sin.  I 
know  Who  has  come  into  the  world  and  borne  the  pain 
that  was  in  it.  I  know  that  so  our  sins  were  laid  on  him. 
And  I  know  that  he  is  mighty  to  help  and  to  save  ;  even  to 
raise  from  the  dead,  and  to  forgive.  When  he  forgave,  he 
took  away  the  evil.  He  went  forgiving  and  healing,  —  the 


224  HITHERTO  : 

two  together,  —  all  the  way  through.  That  is  all  I  know. 
But  that  is  peace." 

"  But  you  don't  think  it  is  for  everybody.  I  never  was 
converted.  I  never  could  find  out  how  to  be." 

"  I  don't  suppose  the  man  with  the  palsy,  or  the  man  pos- 
sessed with  the  devils,  found  out  how  to  be  cured.  .  If  they 
had,  they  would  have  had  no  need  to  come  to  Jesus." 

"  I  never  could  find  out  that  I  had  been,  then." 

"  The  woman  who  touched  the  hem  of  his  garment  felt  in  her 
body  that  she  was  healed  of  her  plague.  Once  to  feel  him 
close  ;  that  is  all,  Anstiss  ;  then  you  must  believe  ;  then  you 
will  know  that  you  are  beginning  to  be  healed." 

Was  that  all? 

And  yet  there  was  a  step ;  something  to  be  done  in  the 
spirit,  that  was  still  mystical  to  me.  To.  go  to  him  as  these 
people  went ;  to  fall  down  before  him  as  he  stood  in  the  way,  — 
one  could  do  that ;  and  when  the  bodily  healing  came,  one 
could  believe  and  glorify  God.  But  he  had  passed  into  the 
heavens ;  whether  heaven  touched  my  spirit,  or  the  spirit 
dreamed  and  deluded  itself,  —  how  could  I  tell  ? 

I  believed  that  I  knew  something,  faintly,  of  the  gift  of 
God  ;  my  heart  swelled  at  a  high  thought,  or  the  clearness  of 
a  truth  witnessed  to  again  and  again,  till  I  was  glad  and  sure. 
I  longed  for  purity,  and  strength,  and  harmony ;  but  this  per- 
sonal believing,  —  this  direct  healing,  —  should  I  ever  come 
to  that? 

Martha  had  asked  me  one  day,  in  her  downright  literal  way, 
if  I  had  ever  experienced  religion.  She  thought  she  had,  I 
knew ;  I  did  not  see  why  I  was  so  far  behind  her. 

"  A  little  —  sometimes,"  I  answered  ;  and  I  think  I  answered 
truth. 

"Hugh!"  said  Martha,  bluffly ;  "  perhaps,  then,  the  Lord 
will  save  you  a  little  —  sometimes." 

And  yet  I  -knew  that  it  tvas  a  little  —  sometimes,  with  the 
best  of  them.  They  owned  it ;  they  declared  as  much  from 
the  pulpits  ;  they  pra}'ed  for  "  seasons  of  refreshing."  Every- 
thing did  not  come  all  at  once,  or  stay  continuously.  What 
did  come  more  than  had  come  to  me  ? 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  225 

It  was  not  beautiful  thought  I  wanted,  now ;  it  was  not 
recognition  of  wonderful  types  and  meanings,  and  the  gladness 
of  sight  that  takes  them  in.  I  had  gone  wi'ong  ;  I  was  not  fit 
to  think  of  that  New  Jerusalem.  I  was  down  in  the  dust ;  my 
life  was  a  mistake,  and  I  had  put  a  tangle  into  others'  lives. 
Who  should  help  me  out  of  this?  Who  should  comfort  and 
justify  me  ?  "  Justify,"  —  set  right ;  that  was  what  it  meant ; 
that  was  what  I  wanted.  And  then  the  phrase  repeated  itself 
in  my  memory,  "justification  b}'  faith  ;  "  was  this  the  way  of  it? 
A  full  and  healing  forgiveness  ?  Was  this  the  "  believe  and  be 
saved  "  of  the  Gospel  ?  Out  of  my  own  especial  sin,  and  be- 
wilderment, and  misery? 

I  got  this  glimpse  ;  but  it  was  a  mind-glimpse.  I  stretched 
forth  my  hands  into  the  darkness  ;  but  I  did  not  feel  Him  pass- 
ing by  ;  I  did  not  hear  Him  ask,  "  What  wilt  thou?  "  I  had  no 
sense  of  a  staying  of  my  plague. 

I  could  not  find  the  invisible  Christ ;  I  wanted  a  soothing 
and  a  tenderness  that  should  come  to  me  by  tones  and  looks  ; 
I  wanted  somebody,  to  say  words  of  help  and  comfort  and  re- 
assurance. 

Besides  that,  I  wanted  somebody  to  tell  me  just  what  I 
ought  to  do. 

I  wanted  it  more  before  those  next  days  were  over. 

What  possessed  me  ?  And  what  possessed  Richard  Hatha- 
way ?  As  true  as  I  live,  I  had  never  had  a  thought  of  this 
before.  I  went  up  the  Long  Orchard.  It  was  in  the  late 
afternoon.  Not  that  same  day  ;  but  several  days  later. 

I  went  up  alone,  and  stood  by  the  broad  wall,  and  leaned 
upon  it. 

There  seemed  to  be  so  much  rest  over  among  the  hills. 
They  were  full  of  cradles  and  shadows.  I  sent  my  restless 
thought  and  pain  out  there,  as  if  I  could  lay  it  down  so,  like 
a  tired  thing.  I  tossed  in  spirit  among  those  soft  green  cush- 
ions and  gentle  hollows.  That  is  the  correspondence  and  sug- 
gestion ;  that  is  what  the  earth  bends  and  swells  and  dints  for  ; 
the  eye  and  the  heart  would  weary,  like  a  bird  at  sea,  over 
dead,  pitiless  plains. 

I  was  away  off  there,  unmindful  of  what  was  coming  near. 
15 


226  HITHERTO: 

Richard,  climbing  the  pasture-side  toward  roe  from  his  meadow 
mowings,  came  close  before  I  knew. 

He  came  down  along  the  wall  from  above,  where  he  reached 
the  brow ;  he  stopped  beside  me,  on  the  other  side.  There 
was  a  wall  between  us  ;  it  was  truer  than  he  knew. 

And  yet  it  was  a  comfort  having  him  there,  just  that  space 
off. 

I  think  he  hardly  knew  what  to  begin  to  say,  now  he  had 
come  there  ;  so  he  was  awkwardly  still  for  a  minute  or  two. 
Then  he  had  to  say  something,  for  he  had  not  come  without  a 
meaning ;  and  it_could  not  be  a  common  word  of  unmeaning 
after  that  pause. 

"  You're  worrying  away  the  good  of  Broadfields,  Anstiss  ; 
you  won't  get  the  rest  you  came  for."  He  remembered  that 
I  bad  said  that;  he  laid  away  words  in  his  heart  so,  and 
thought  them  over. 

"  I  can't  help  it,  Richard ;  I've  gone  wrong.  You  know 
what  it  is  ;  everybody  knows.  I  didn't  mean  it ;  I  didn't  know 
what  I  meant ;  but  I  ought  to  have  known.  Everybody  blames 
me." 

"  I  don't  blame  you  ;  you'll  know  next  time." 

He  spoke  before  he  thought ;  words  of  common  usage  such 
as  people  say  in  comfort  for  common  mistakes.  Then  some- 
thing in  his  own  speech  seemed  to  startle  him,  with  an  unin- 
tended application. 

"  I  mean,  —  well,  we  all  have  to  get  wisdom  by  paying  for 
it." 

"  If  that  was  all !     If  other  people  didn't  have  to  pay  !  " 

"  That's  where  it  costs." 

- 

He  paused.     He  could  not  help  me  there. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Nansie.  I'm  sorry  for  you —  and  everybody. 
But  I  don't  know  as  you  could  help  it ;  I  don't  know  as  you 
need  to  blame  yourself  so  much." 

"  Yes,  you  do,  Richard.  You  know  you  would  blame  me 
if  —  it  was  your  place." 

There  was  no  grammar  in  my  blundering  speech,  of  which  I 
felt  the  strangeness  as  I  made  it ;  but  he  understood  ;  he  put 
himself  in  the  place  I  thought  of. 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  227 

"  I  don't  know,  Anstiss ;  I  shouldn't  have  much  left  to 
blame  with ;  it  would  take  the  whole  of  me  to  bear  it,  I 
think." 

What  had  I  done  ?  What  did  he  mean  ?  What  was  I  rush- 
ing upon  now  ?  I  hurried  to  say  something  different. 

"  I  wish  I  knew  what  I  ought  to  do.  I  think  I  should  like 
to  go  away  somewhere.  To  some  still  place  where  nobody 
would  come.  I  wonder  "  —  and  I  laughed,  nervously,  at  what 
suggested  itself,  as  I  still  looked  off  there  among  the  quiet 
hills  —  "  if  the  Polisher  girls  would  take  me  to  board !  " 

I  don't  think  Richard  heard  what  I  said.  He  was  intent 
upon  what  had  been  spoken  just  before. 

"  I  never  will  blame  you,  Anstiss ;  I  didn't  suppose  I 
should  say  anything  about  it  yet  awhile  ;  but  I've  always  been 
thinking  of  it ;  could  3'ou  —  don't  you  think  —  3rou  might  be 
contented  at  the  Farm?  With  me?  Mightn't  we  get  along 
together  as  well  as  the  rest  of  the  world  ?  " 

[O  Richard !  Silently,  his  heart  was  brimful  of  beautiful 
things  ;  of  thoughts  of  how  he  would  take  Anstiss  to  his  arms, 
and  shelter  her,  and  make  her  home  glad  for  her  all  her  life- 
long, if  she  would  only  let  him  ;  of  tender  longing  to  smooth 
every  roughness,  and  soothe  every  pain  for  her ;  of  humble 
self-disparagement  that  would  not  let  him  be  eloquent  in 
words  ;  of  the  image  of  a  joy  that  all  "  the  rest  of  the  world  " 
could  neither  hold  nor  conceive  of ;  of  a  prayer  to  God  in  this 
tremulous  poise  of  fate,  that  this  great  joy  might  come  to 
him  ;  of  a  manly  gathering  of  himself  to  bear  what  might  be 
instead  ;  of  generous  will  that,  come  what  might,  he  would 
keep  his  word  and  not  blame  her ;  and  this  was  the  best  he 
could  do  with  it !  When  the  well  is  deep,  there  is  so  often 
nothing  to  draw  with  !] 

"  O  Richard  !  No  —  no  !  —  Take  it  back,  please  ! " 
We  stood  there,  perfectly  silent,  unmoving.     Neither  dared 
remind  the  other,  by  the  lifting  of  a  linger,  of, a  painful  pres- 
ence.    Our  words  that  we  had  .spoken  went  out  into  the  air, 
and  sent  their  viewless  vibrations  far  off  among  the  hills. 


228  HITHERTO: 

Into  the  world  and  space ;  full  of  the  words  and  cries  and 
moans  of  men,  —  the  confused  and  crowded  writing  of  human 
life. 

[Anstiss  did  not  see  how  pale  he  grew ;  how  the  lips  set 
themselves,  and  still  trembled  ;  how,  holding  his  body  motion- 
less, the  whole  man  yet  visibly  reeled.] 

I  should  not  have  dared  look  up  if  it  had  been  a  year ;  it 
seemed  a  time  I  could  not  measure,  that  we  stood  so.  Then 
Richard  put  his  hand  out  across  the  wall  that  was  between  us. 
He  lifted  mine,  and  closed  his  fingers  firmly  round  it. 

"  It  is  taken  back,  Anstiss." 

That  was  all   he   said.     He  laid   my  hand  down,  slowly, 
tenderly,  upon  the  stones  where  it  had  been  before.     Laid  it 
down,  like  a  thing  he  gave  up,  gently.     And  then  he  turned 
back,  and  walked  away,  swiftly,  down  the  slope  over  which  he  « 
had  climbed  to  me,  and  out  of  sight. 

My  hand,  that  I  had  refused  him,  lay  there,  dropped  from 
loving  fingers,  upon  the  rough  stones,  where  it  had  been 
before. 

What  different  could  I  have  said  ?  If  Hi  chard  could  only 
have  given  me  less  or  more  !  He  was  good,  —  too  good  for 
me ;  and  yet  he  asked  me  into  such  a  mere  every-day  life ! 
"  To  get  along  as  well  as  the  rest  of  the  world ; "  ah,  if  I 
put  my  hand  into  any  man's,  I  wanted  so  that  it  should  be  to 
climb!  To  get  above  the  rest  of  the  world;  I  wanted,  at 
least,  that  he  should  long  for  this,  as  I  did,  and  more  ;  that 
looking  up  to  him  I  should  be  looking  up  in  the  line  that 
reaches  from  earth  to  heaven ;  up  the  slope  of  the  beautiful 
ladder  whereon  the  angels  of  God  go  up  and  down. 

He  could  give  me  home  and  peace, — peace  that  should  reach 
just  as  deep,  and  only,  as  the  circumstance  of  day  by  day ; 
but  the  .deep-sea  peace,  —  who  should  find  that  for  me  ? 

What  was  I  that  I  should  demand  so  much  ?  Yet  to  be 
more,  —  this  was  just  why  I  demanded  it.  It  would  not  have 
been  right  to  marry  Richard  Hathaway. 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  229 

I  might  never  love,  and  be  beloved,  as  my  nature  craved. 
"Well,  that  was  God's  denying.  He  had  shown  me  what  love 
and  life  might  be,  and  he  hud  said,  It  is  not  for  thee. 

The  world  is  fall ;  but  in.  it  all  I  might  not,  in  a  lifetime, 
come  face  to  face  with  a  man  of  such  kingly  spirit  and  pres- 
ence as  I  dreamed  of —  as  I  had  met  in  Granclon  Cope. 

I  could  not  but  think  of  him  ;  he  represented  to  me  my 
ideal ;  yet  it  was  not  a  disappointed  hope  or  imagination, 
even,  that  connected  itself,  directl}*,  with  him.  I  had  been 
almost  content  to  be  his  sister  ;  to  live  with  one  nearer  my 
own  level,  under  the  benediction  of  such  brotherhood  ;  to  grow 
toward  the  height  with  one  who  looked  toward  it  as  well  as  I. 
If  he  had  stayed  as  he  was  ;  if  he  could  have  always  seemed 
to  me  something  so  above  all  common  love  and  liking,  I  should 
never  have  known  better  ;  but  that  he  should  love,  —  and  that 
his  love  should  be  Augusta  Hare  !  This  it  was  that  wakened 
me  ;  that  shook  roughly  all  my  half-formed  thought  and  pur- 
pose ;  that  threw  into  a  confusion  of  disintegration  all  the 
half-crystallized  possibilities  of  my  life. 

And  after  this,  that  Richard  —  dear,  kind,  good,  common- 
place Richard —  should  come  and  ask  me  if  "  we  might  not 
get  along  together  as  well  as  the  rest  of  the  world  !  "  I  could 
but  cry  out  the  "  No  —  no  !  "  that  was  such  a  thrust  of  cruel 
pain  ;  but  that  was  the  only  true  answer  to  his  word. 

Yet  I  lay  wakeful  all  that  night,  suffering  the  rebound  of 
my  own  thrust.  Why  should  nobody  be  happy  ?  Why  should 
one  not  only  be  denied,  but  be  forced  to  deny  othei's?  If  I 
could  have  been  noble  enough,  might  I  not  have  set  self  aside, 
and  done  my  best  for  so  good  a  man  as  Richard  Hathaway  ? 
Need  I,  at  any  rate,  have  been  so  cruelly  abrupt?  Need  I 
have  shouted  that  reiterated  "No!"  so  instantly  into  his 
ears  ?  I  had  acted  from  the  self-impulse,  only ;  I  had  been 
cruel. 

Hope  knew  I  was  awake  and  restless  ;  she  gave  over  sleep 
herself  in  the  early  morning,  and  tried  to  say  kind  woi'ds  to 
me  ;  she  thought  I  was  worrying  still  over  the  old  story. 

I  lay  still  iu  bed,  while  she  got  up  at  last,  and  moved  about 
the  room,  dressing.  When  she  was  nearly  ready,  she  turned 


230  HITHERTO: 

round  to  me  from  the  toilet  glass,  in  which  I  suppose  she  had 
been  watching  my  face  more  than  her  own. 

"  Anstiss,  dear,  you  have  had  no  good  of  your  night ;  you 
had  better  lie  and  sleep,  and  let  me  bring  j'our  breakfast  up." 

That  word  about  breakfast,  and  the  thought  of  going  down- 
stairs, sent  the  shock  of  it  all  through  me  again. 

"  I  don't  care  for  sleep,  Hope,  or  breakfast  either,"  I  cried 
out ;  "  but  I  can't  go  down.  It  is  more  than  you  know  ;  I 
can't  see  Richard  to-day.  Hope,  I've  treated  him  —  shame- 
fully !  " 

She  dropped  her  hand,  with  the  comb  in  it,  down  upon  the 
table.  She  pressed  against  it,  and  lifted  herself  up,  tall  and 
straight  and  indignant,  in  her  surprise.  Something  in  the 
light  of  her  clear  eyes  was  like  a  blaze,  and  frightened  me. 

"  Then  you've  treated  shamefully  the  lovingest,  patientest, 
grand-heartedest  man  that  breathes." 

She  said  it  slowl}-,  word  after  word,  and  then  she  was  quite 
silent,  and  turned  away  from  me  again. 

I  would  not  say  a  syllable  to  justifj^  myself,  for  I  did  not 
think  I  had  the  right ;  but  neither  would  I  lie  there,  a  crushed, 
ailing  thing.  I  got  up  with  a  kind  of  dignity,  and  began  .to 
dress. 

I  would  not  cringe  utterly  under  her  rebuke  ;  for  there  was 
a  half  of  me  yet  noble  enough  to  stand  in  her  own  attitude 
over  the  other  half.  I  could  rebuke  myself;  so  I  was  not 
wholly  mean. 

In  a  pride  like  this  I  kept  silence,  also,  awhile ;  but  if  I 
would  not  let  my  worse  self  quarrel  with  Hope's  generous 
anger,  neither  would  I  permit  that  it  should  seem  so.  Besides, 
I  could  ill  afford,  at  this  moment,  to  lose  her  love  and  counsel. 

I  let  it  stand  so,  as  a  thing  neither  disputed  nor  abjectty 
acknowledged  ;  and  I  said,  after  a  while,  as  one  who  had  still 
a  claim  to  credit  for.  a  will  to  act  rightly,  —  "  Hope,  I  need 
advice.  I  can't  stay  here.  If  I  go  home,  nobody  knows 
there,  and  things  will  be  hard.  I  am  all  alone  with  my 
troubles." 

I  said  it  quietly,  and  with  a  certain  strength.  I  would  not 
plead  for  any  mercy  or  friendship. 


A   STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  231 

Then  it  was  that  she  answered  me,  not  unkindly,  —  "If  I 
were  you,  Anstiss,  I  would  tell  the  Avhole  to  Aunt  Ildy."  At 
the  moment  I  threw  it  aside,  as  a  refusal  of  all  counsel.  It 
went  for  nothing  ;  yet  I  know  it  was  Hope's  best  thought  for 
me.  I  know  she  would,  in  my  place,  have  done  that  very 
thing.  She  had  never  seen  Aunt  Hdy  quite  as  I  did.  She 
had  a  genius  for  discerning  the  good  and  the  available  in 
people,  as  she  discerned  it  in  things.  Nothing  was  absolute 
rags  and  hopelessness  to  her.  There  was  nothing  that  could 
not  be  "  made  to  do."  She  drew  straight  to  the  sterling 
metal  in  the  midst  of  the  ore,  like  a  loadstone.  She  made  for 
that ;  she  placed  herself  in  relation  to  that  alone,  ignoring 
the  rest. 

She  and  Miss  Chism  were  good  friends.  Aunt  Ildy's 
strong  uprightness  —  even  her  hardness  —  had  a  charm  for 
Hope  Devine. 

"You  knew  what  to  calculate  upon,  with  her,"  she  said. 
"  She  expected  everybody  to  do  just  right,  that  was  all.  There 
was  something  fine  in  her  not  being  satisfied  with  anything 
else.  It  had  been  hard  for  a  little  thoughtless  child,  very 
like.;  but  a  woman  grown  might  be  glad  of  a  friend  like  her." 

"  See  how  good  she  would  be  to  you  if  any  real,  great 
trouble  —  a  trouble  such  as  she  could  understand  —  was  to 
come  to  you.  She  is  just  one  of  that  kind." 

So  Hope  had  said,  one  day,  and  so,  now,  I  know  she  really 
thought  that  the  best  thing  I  could  do  would  be  to  tell  Aunt 
Ildy. 

But  while  this  thought  lay  discarded,  for  the  time,  in  my 
mind,  something  else  possessed  me,  half-aggrieved  as  I  was 
with  Hope,  and  longing  truly,  also^that  some  good  and  com- 
fort, that  I  could  not  give,  should  come  to  Richard  Hathaway. 

Hope  was  kind,  but  there  was  a  shade  of  reproachful  grav- 
ity and  reserve  that  stayed  about  her.  It  was  hard  for  me  to 
bear  this  ;  it  irritated  me. 

All  at  once,  when  we  were  alone>  afterward,  that  morning, 
catching  this  look  of  hers,  and  remembering  her  words  of  him 
so  deliberately  and  protractedly  superlative,  I  spoke  out  reck- 
lessly. 


232  HITHERTO: 

"  Hope,  why  don't  you  marry  him  yourself  ?  " 

Hope's  cheeks  were  on  fire,  but  her  eyes  looked  large  and 
calm,  straight  through  me. 

"I  don't  think  you  mean  that,  Anstiss,"  she  said,  proudly. 

"No,  I  didn't, — I  don't  mean  it,  so,  Hope.  I  beg  your 
pardon,  it  was  half  in  joke ;  but  I  do  mean  it  is  the  best  thing 
I  could  wish  for  him ;  and  I  do  wish  him  good ;  I  think  he 
will  ask  you  some  time.  He  doesn't  know  how  much  you  are 
to  him.  When  he  does,  —  ask,  I  mean, — if  you  can  help  it, 
don't  say  no.  He  deserves  you ;  he  is  too  good  for  me." 

The  color  stayed  in  her  cheeks  ;  her  eyes  softened  a  little.  . 

"  You  have  no  right  to  suppose  such  a  thing ;  but  I  should 
say  no." 

"  You  can't  tell,  now,  Hope." 

"  I  can ;  because  I  couldn't  take  a  thing  that  didn't  belong 
to  me,  not  even  if  I  wanted  it.  Not  even  if  I  picked  it  up  in 
the  dust,  —  knowing  who  the  owner  was." 

"  But  if  the  owner  wasn't  fit  to  have  it ;  if  it  had  been  left 
behind,  or  thrown  away  ?  " 

"  If  they  didn't  know,  —  if  it  was  a  child,  perhaps,  —  I'd 
keep  it  as  safe  as  I  could  till  they  found  out  better,  and 
wanted  it,  and  came  back  for  it ;  it  wouldn't  be  mine." 

Hope  did  not  stop  for  the  parsing ;  but  it  was  only  the  ob- 
jective pronoun  that  was  confused ;  in  the  light  of  her  pure 
honesty,  the  possessive  case  was  clear. 

I  was  ashamed  of  my  unconsidered  impertinence ;  yet  I 
was  all  the  more  sure  of  my  inspiration.  I  was  sure  it  would 
be  a  good  thing  if  Richard  Hathaway  and  Hope  Devine  were 
married. 

Before  Aunt  Ildy  came  "driving  out  to  the  Farm  that  after- 
noon in  Wimbish's  high,  old-fashioned,  two-wheeled  chaise,.! 
had  made  up  my  mind. 

There  were  two  hours  before  tea,  and  an  hour  after ;  I 
should  have  plenty  of  time.  • 

Did  anybody  ever  try  the  experiment  of  getting  an  opportu- 
nity to  say  half-a-dozen  sentences  to  an  individual,  by  that 
person's  self,  and  find  in  three  hours,  or  days,  or  weeks,  even, 
that  there  was  plenty  of  time  ? 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  233 

I  went  upstairs  with  her,  into  the  south-west  chamber, 
while  she  changed  her  cup.  I  stood,  gathering  myself  for  the 
plunge,  and  waited  ;  watching  the  little  white  balls  on  the 
curtain-fringes  bobbing  in  the  wind,  just  as  I  had  watched 
them  that  day,  3Tears  ago,  when  I  had  had  to  tell  about  the 
bonnet.  She  stood  just  where  she  stood  then,  and  was  put- 
ting pins  in  her  cap  in  the  selfsame  way,  with  the  selfsame 
angle  in  her  elbow. 

I  waited  for  the  elbow  to  come  down  ;  for  there  is  no  use  in 
speaking  to  any  woman  in  that  position,  putting  a  critical  pin 
into  hair  or  cap,  with  all  the  circulation  and  respiration 
stopped,  and  nerves  in  a  twist,  by  the  upward  reach  and  strain 
in  a  tight  dress.  Anj'body  who  would  take  anybody's  else 
affairs  into  consideration,  under  such  circumstances,  would 
have  no  cap  to  pin,  because  she  would  be  nothing  else  than 
an  angel  with  wings  and  long  hair. 

By  the  time  the  elbow  came  down,  Mrs.  Hathaway  came 
in,  and  when  we  all  went  downstairs  we  seated  ourselves  in 
the  keeping-room  with  our  work,  and  began  to  "  spend  the 
afternoon."  Once,  when  Mrs.  Hathaway  went  out,  for  a  few 
hospitably  demanded  minutes,  and  Hope  followed  presently,  I 
think  with  remembrance  of  the  opportunity  I  needed,  Martha 
seized  the  chance  for  a  purpose  of  her  own,  which  required  no 
preparation  of  nerve  ;  only  a  glance  from  side  to  side,  with 
her  head  very  much  in  advance  of  the  rest  of  her,  as  she  came 
in  reconnoitring  to  see  if  the  coast  were  clear. 

"  Oh  !  — Miss  Chism,  you  air  at  lezhure,  aint  you?  I  come 
in  a-purpose  to  see.  I  was  goin'  to  ask  a  great  obleedgement 
of  you.  You  see,  I  want  a  gown,  —  a  calicker  gown  ;  an'  there 
aint  no  thing  o'  the  name .  or  natur'  that  you  couldn't  shoot 
straws  through,  an'  that  wouldn't  make  you  cross-e}Ted  to 
look  at,  in  Broadfields  village.  I  wanted  to  see  if  you'd  buy 
me  one  in  New  Oxford,  an'  let  Richard  take  it  next  time  he's 
in.  I'm  willin'  to  go  as  fur  as  two  an'  sixpence  for  a  good 
English  calicker,  spry-colored,  an'  tast}',  an'  one  that'll  wash. 
An'  there's  the  money.  Nine  yards  —  three  dullars  —  an' 
four  an'  sixpence.  I  shan't  begrudge  it  if  you  pay  the 


234  HITHERTO  : 

whole :  but  if  you  can  get  it  any  more  reasonable,  so  much 
the  better." 

By  the  time  the  money  was  unrolled  from  the  tight  crush 
of  Martha's  palm,  and  spread  out,  and  handed  over  to  Miss 
Chism,  —  two  bank-notes,  a  new  silver  American  half,  and  a 
Spanish  quarter,  —  and  Martha  had  once  more  acknowledged 
the  obleedgement,  and  reiterated  the  stipulation  that  the  calico 
should  be  "  spry-colored,"  and  finally  departed,  Mrs.  Hatha- 
way was  in  again  ;  and  after  that  I  was  not  left  alone  with 
Aunt  Ildy  until  just  before  we  were  called  to  tea. 

It  was  no  time  then  to  begin.  "VVe  could  smell  the  hot, 
sweet,  spicy  flapjacks  coming  in  from  the  kitchen.  But  I  be- 
spoke an  opportunity  when  tea  should  be  over.  I  touched 
Miss  Chism's  arm  as  she  was  going  out  before  me  ;  and  made 
her  stop  an  instant. 

"  I  think,  Aunt  Ildy,  that  I'd  better  go  home  with  you  to- 
night, perhaps.  I  want  to  tell  you  something,  after  tea. 
Something  that  rather  worries  me,"  I  added,  lest  she  should 
imagine  a  communication  of  some  quite  contrary  char- 
acter. 

She  looked  at  me  half  sharply,  for  a  second,  with  her 
"  What  now  ?  "  expression  ;  but  I  think  she  only  saw  in  my 
face  an  appeal  and  a  confidence  that  touched  her  kindly  ;  for 
she  uttered  a  slow,  non-committal,  not  unfriendly,  u  Well !  " 
unbent  her  brows,  and  let  me  come  beside  her  as  we  left  the 
room.  Afterwards  she  helped  me  to  flapjacks  at  the  table  in 
a  way  as  if  she  appreciated  my  reliance  on  her  good-will. 

It  was  often  very  much  according  to  Hope's  apprehension 
of  her  ;  that  is,  if  one  could  only  think  in  time.  If  you  con- 
fided in  her,  if  you  gave  her  credit  for  good  feeling,  and 
trusted  to  it,  —  if  you  sought  her  advice;  above  all,  if  you 
followed  it  submissively,  —  you  were  on  the  sunny  side,  then. 
You  were  "  en  rapport ;  "  and  all  the  strength  of  her  stern, 
stanch  nature*  was  thrown  with  and  for,  instead  of  against, 
you.  It  was  no  mean  dependence.  When  tea  was  over,  Mrs. 
Hathawajr  proposed  going  down  the  garden,  or  up  the 
orchard  ;  which  would  Ildy  like? 

"Oh,  it  don't  make  any  odds  to  me.     Down  the  garden,  I 


A    S'fORY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  235 

guess ;  but  I  want  Anstiss  upstairs,  first,  a  minute  or  two. 
You  needn't  wait.  We'll  come  down." 

So  I  followed  her,  feeling  it  harder,  so,  for  the  deliberation 
and  expectancy  ;  yet  easier,  also,  for  Aunt  Ildy's  prepossessed 
benignity.  Poor  Aunt  Ildy !  After  all,  she  was  left  very 
much  in  her  own  hard,  single,  old  life  ! 

I  determined  to  speak  straight  to  what  I  wanted,  whether 
it  were  there  or  not.  To  a  hidden  love  for  me  in  her  heart ;  to 
a  hidden  sympathetic  possibility. 

"  Aunt  lid}',"  I  began,  "  I'm  in  a  real  trouble.  I  want  you 
to  tell  me  what  to  do.  I  ought  to  have  prevented  it  before  ;  I 
wish  I  had  asked  you  sooner.  —  I  know  what  Allard  Cope 
means,  now  ;  and  I  know  that  I  can  only  be  sorry  for  it,  and 
—  wish  —  he  wouldn't  mean  it." 

"  Has  he  said  anything? " 

"  No  ;  but  he  would  have.  I  stopped  it ;  I  wouldn't  ride 
to  South  Side  with  him.  Mrs.  Hathaway  saw ;  she  said  I 
oughtn't  —  unless  —  " 

"  That  won't  stop  it,  if  he's  got  it  to  say." 

"  I  think  he  understood  ;  and  besides  —  Augusta  Hare  has 
been  here  ;  and  she  said  things.  I  answered  her  so  that  — 
she  knows.  I  don't  believe  he'd  come  out  here  again." 

"Then  why  don't  you  stay?  It's  the  best  place.  I  don't 
see  but  it's  all  over." 

Something  like  a  shadow  of  hardness  came  again  over  Aunt 
Ildy's  face.  Something  —  her  sympathy,  or  her  intent  to 
help  —  that  had  been  coming,  stopped  itself  short,  and  fell 
back,  as  it  were,  in  her  eyes  ;  took  itself  back  ;  not  wanted. 
As  if  she  had  run  to  a  fire,  and  found  that  somebody  else  had 
put  it  out.  Aunt  Ildy  would  not  have  liked  to  do  that. 

"O  Aunt  Ildy!"  I  hastened  out  with,  "that's  only  the 
beginning  !  That  isn't  the  worst.  —  Aunt  Ildy  —  Richard 
Hathaway  wants  me  to  marry  him,  too,  and  I  can't !  " 

"Too?  I  should  presume  not."  Aunt  Ildy  smiled  in  a 
rather  cast-iron  way,  at  her  own  grammatical  quickness  and 
wit.  Then  she  grew  grave  again,  with  a  softening  of  real 
concern  in  her  face. 

"  I  can't  stay  here,  you  see,"  I  said.     "  And  what  shall  I 


236  HITHERTO: 

do  at  home?  They'll  expect  me  at  South  Side.  Perhaps 
they'll  send  Allard  over.  There'll  be  all  sorts  of  things. 
There  doesn't  seem  to  be  any  place  for  me." 

I  do  not  know  why  she  did  not  blame  me.  Perhaps  because  a 
difficulty  always  roused  her  whole  energy  to  grapple  with  itself; 
perhaps  because,  now  that  the  realities  of  life  had  come  to  me  so 
suddenly  and  thickly,  she  felt  a  sort  of  respect  for  my  indivual- 
ity.  In  my  new  relation  to  great  questions,  I  stood  —  passed 
out  of  my  familiar  childishness  and  inferiority  —  in  a  sort  of 
strangerhood,  all  at  once.  I  had  affairs  ;  responsibilities  ;  I  was 
no  longer  in  mere  training  and  anticipation.  I  was  not  a  child, 
to  be  tutored,  —  I  was  a  woman,  to  be  counselled  ;  I  had  come 
to  her  with  confidence.  At  that  moment  Aunt  Ildy  took  a 
new  attitude  toward  me. 

She  had  done,  all  these  years,  what  she  thought  was  "good 
for  me  ; "  she  had  tried,  with  her  rigid  processes,  to  prepare 
me  for  life.  Now  life,  that  has  its  separate  burden  for  each, 
was  upon  me.  Her  office  was,  as  it  were,  over.  She  could 
set  aside  discipline,  and  be  my  friend.  Especially,  as  I  so  en- 
treated it.  I  think  she  felt  my  coming  to  her  to  be  her  re- 
ward. And  doubtless  it  was.  No  good  that  has  been  truly 
meant,  though  in  the  midst  of  mistakes,  shall,  in  any  upshot 
of  life,  be  utterly  lost.  In  the  end  of  things  the  angels  shall 
always  come  and  gather  the  wheat  from  among  the  tares. 

I  felt  light  of  heart  when  my  telling  was  over.  Since  Aunt 
Hdy  did  not  condemn  me,  she  was  sure  for  help.  I  had  laid 
my  burden  on  ample  shoulders. 

"  The  first  thing,"  she  said,  "  is  for  you  to  go  home  with 
me  to-night,  of  course.  You  can  be  packing  up  your  things 
while  I  go  down  to  Abby  Hathaway.  And  mind  and  turn 
your  skirts  before  you  fold  your  gowns.  And  double  the 
sleeves  in  the  middle  and  pull  them  out  flat.  I'll  see  to  some- 
thing for  you.  Does  Mrs.  Hathaway  know?" 

"  Not  from  me." 

"  I  shan't  tell  her.  You  needn't  pack  up  any  worries.  You 
can  get  them  anywhere  as  you  go  along." 

"  You  are  very  kind,  Aunt  Ildy,"  I  said,  with  my  head  in 
the  closet,  beginning  to  take  down  dresses.  There  was  a  little 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  237 

oddness  in  my  voice,  I  knew ;  hut  the  smother  of  the  closet 
covered  that.  I  had  learned  not  to  be  demonstrative  with 
Aunt  Ildy.  Actions  were  better  than  words,  was  her  doctrine. 
I  .could  only  determine  within  myself  to  roll  up  her  lavender 
satin  cap-strings  very  carefully,  and  to  have  all  her  things 
comfortably  ready  for  her  downstairs,  when  she  came  in  ;  and 
to  be  very  particular  about  my  own  foldings  as  she  had  charged 
me.  For  the  rest,  I  would  watch  opportunity. 

She  was  laying  the  best  cap  on  the  bed,  and  putting  on  her 
bonnet  cap,  over  which  she  tied  a  handkerchief  for  her  garden 
walk.  She  said  nothing  at  all  to  my  last  words  until  she  was 
just  going  out  of  the  door.  Then  she  turned  her  head  over 
her  shoulder. 

u  That  depends  —  on  behavior.  "When  people  deserve  kind- 
ness, they  get  it.  Pinch  those  ruffles  up  with  your  thumb  and 
finger.  You've  kept  that  pink  muslin  pretty  nice."  Aunt 
Ildy  never  aimed  direct  at  the  thing  that  most  pleased  her, 
in  her  commendations  ;  she  always  carromed.  She  was  satis- 
fied with  me  to-night.  She  thought  I  had  behaved  well.  I 
was  half  of  good  cheer,  even  in  the  midst  of  my  troubles. 

But  it  was  hard  to  bear  when  Richard  Hathaway,  doing  just 
as  he  always  had  done,  and  always,  I  knew,  Avould  do,  brought 
round  Aunt  Ildy's  horse  and  chaise,  and  helped  us  in,  holding 
the  reins  till  we  were  seated ;  and  then  shook  hands,  friendly 
and  warmly,  with  her  first,  and  then  with  me.  Not  the  least 
difference  ;  no  reminder  in  the  grasp  or  in  the  loosing ;  he  had 
"  taken  it  all  back."  He  kept  it  back  out  of  his  face,  even. 
He  never  would  trouble  me  with  it  again.  I  knew  that  I  left 
a  noble  heart  there  behind  me,  holding  its  own  pain,  silently. 
At  that  moment,  at  least,  I  knew  this  of  Richard  Hathaway. 

Yet  the  way  in  which  he  bore  himself  comforted  me,  in 
spite  of  my  knowledge,  already  ;  just  as  he  meant  it  should. 

The  reaction  of  rest  began  to  come,  after  the  agitations  of 
so  many  days  ;  I  began  to  be  drawn  from  my  introspections 
to  things  outside,  which  took  me  almost  with  surprise  that 
they  should  still  be  there.  The  evening  air  blew  calm  and 
cool ;  the  old  road  lay  between  its  familiar  woods  and  fields  ; 
Aunt  Ildy  slapped  the  reins  up  and  down  on  the  back  of 


238  IIITHEETO  : 

Wimbish's  easy-going  roan  ;  she  left  me  in  silent  peace  for  a 
whole  mile  or  more.  All  that  way  the  rhythm  of  the  slow- 
dropping  hoofs  had  been  lulling  my  busy  thoughts,  and  hush- 
ing sorry  ones  away  to  sleep  ;  heart  and  brain  cannot  throb 
and  hurry  to  such  a  measurement  as  that.  Truly  as  I  grieved 
for  what  I  had  done,  I  seemed  to  have  left  it  more  than  a  mile 
behind  me. 

Aunt  Ildy  spoke  at  last. 

"  I've  been  thinking,"  she  said,  holding  the  reins  up  very 
high  and  tight,  one  in  each  hand,  and  keeping  her  eyes  un- 
swervingly upon  the  horse's  ears,  as  he  took  a  mild  trot,  com- 
ing successfully  out  of  a  down-hill  creep  upon  a  stretch  of 
safe,  level,  meadow  road.  "  I've  been  thinking  it  over.  How 
should  you  like  to  go  to  Boston  ?  " 

It  was  like  the  thunder-clap  Avith  which  the  genie  came  with 
gifts,  into  the  "  Arabian  Nights." 

That  she  should  have  thought  of  this  on  my  behalf !  That 
such  a  thing  should  be  "  worth  while  "  for  me !  It  was  as  if 
I  had  died,  and  found  out  that  they  would  have  mourning  and 
a  headstone  for  me,  as  to  which  I  had  wondered  in  my  childish 
days.  I  shrank  within  myself  with  fear  of  too  ready  appro- 
priation of  such  consequence  ;  with  humility  and  undesert.  I 
always  did  so ;  I  believe  I  should  have  done  so  in  my  grave, 
if  I  could  know  they  were  making  any  fuss  about  me  over- 
head. 

"  Well !  "  shot  Miss  Chism,  sharply,  into  my  silence. 

"  O  Aunt  Ildy,  what  can  I  say?  It's  a  great  deal  too  much 
to  do  for  me.  And  it's  —  it's  the  kindness  I  care  for !  " 

"  H?igh  !  "  said  Miss  Ildy,  through  her  nose.  But  those 
four  consonants  hel'd  her  displeasure  ;  it  was  not  in  her  face. 
"  There's  no  need  of  any  highfalutin  about  it,  as  I  know  of. 
It  wasn't  all  for  you.  I  had  some  thoughts  of  going,  before. 
You  haven't  answered  me  yet." 

It  was  very  hard  to  be  just  properly  and  spontaneously 
grateful,  and  yet  not  to  assume  too  much.  Of  course  it  could 
not  have  all  been  for  me.  But  she  did  not  make  her  cake  all 
for  me.  By  no  means  ;  Miss  Chism  was  careful  of  her  cake, 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  239 

and  kept  it  mostly  for  worth-while  occasions  ;  yet  sometimes 
she  would  cut  me  a  piece  and  offer  it ;  then  I  was  all  the  more 
thankful.  , 

I  calmed  down  my  effusion  instantly,  however. 

"  Whether  I  would  like  it,"  said  I,  suppressing  the  excla- 
mation point,  and  with  as  matter-of-fact  intonation  as  a  dis- 
trict school-child  repeating  the  word  before  spelling.  "Yes, 
Aunt  Ildy,  I  just  exactly  should." 

"  Then  I've  about  made  up  my  mind  that  you  just  exactly 
shall.  That  is,  if  nothing  happens.  I'm  going  to  see  about 
it.  You'll  want  new  sleeves  to  your  stripid  muslin-de-laine ; 
it'll  do  to  travel  in,  and  to  wear  cool  days." 

This  was  almost  too  ordinary  and  comfortable  ;  it  brought 
my  self-reproaches  back.  I  began  to  be  jealous  of  her  not  blam- 
ing me  ;  I  was  getting  off  too  easily  ;  I  could  not  ignore  as  she 
did.  In  all  this  there  had  not  been  a  word  of  poor  Eichard 
Hathaway,  and  what  I  had  done  to  him. 

"  Only,"  I  said,  "  I  have  no  right  to  pleasant  things  ;  I  have 
made  two  people  unhappy  ;  I  can't  forget  that." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  very  coolly.  "  There 
isn't  much  telling,  perhaps,  about  that  part.  Maybe  it's  more 
than  an  even  chance  they'll  both  get  over  it." 

I  was  thrown  back  again,  as  having  assumed  too  much. 

"  At  any  rate,  a  girl  can't  marry  everybody  that  asks  her, 
and  everybody  else  '  too,' "  she  went  on,  quoting  my  word,  and 
reproducing  the  cast-iron  smile.  "  Somebody  has  got  to 
stand  aside.  And  you  can't  say  no  until  you  are  asked.  It's 
best,  when  you  can,  to  have  it  straight  out  and  settle  it.  I 
hate  things  daggling  on  tenterhooks." 

Aunt  Ildy  was  thoroughly  on  my  side,  for  once.  It  was 
manifest  that  she  was,  for  some  reason,  well  content  with 
things  as  they  had  fallen  out.  And  I  could  not  help  drawing, 
silently,  two  other  inferences  frojtn  her  cheeriness,  not  to  say 
slight  exhilaration  of  spirit.  That  she  had  not  known  much 
of  this  pain  of  saying  u  no,"  herself;  or  if  she  had,  that  it  was 
in  the  comfortable  long  ago,  where  pain  fades  out  and  only 
pleasantness  stands.  That  her  lovers  had  got  bravely  over  it. 
Also,  that  it  might  be  possible  she  was  rather  glad  than  other- 


240  HITHERTO: 

wise,  after  all,  to  keep  me  at  home  a  little  longer.  Out  of  her 
narrow  living,  perhaps  she  would  have  missed  even  me. 

The  mere  contingenc}^  of  this  drew  me  toward  her.  I  sat, 
resolving  upon  how  I  would  do  eveiything  henceforth,  for  her 
and  Uncle  Royle  ;  how  I  would  bear  all  her  hardness  patiently, 
and  keep  up  zealously  to  all  her  requirements  ;  never  forget- 
ting that  she  had  stood  by  me,  when  my  trouble  came. 

A  faint  flavor  suggests  more  than  satiety  can  give.  A  very 
little  gentleness,  an  ever  so  small  relaxing,  toward  me  from 
Aunt  Ildy,  stirred  me  more  than  tender  kisses  and  embraces 
from  another.  I  kissed  and  embraced  her  that  night  in  my 
heart. 

It  went  on  so  through  the  whole.  I  had  never,  apparently, 
made  such  a  stroke  for  nryself  in  my  life. 

We  had  no  more  talk,  all  the  way  into  New  Oxford  ;  Uncle 
Royle  helped  us  out  at  the  street  door,  and  carried  my  box 
upstairs.  Then  he  drove  the  horse  back  to  Wimbish's  stable  ; 
and  Aunt  Ildy  asked  me  if  I  would  have  any  thing  to  eat  before 
I  went  to  bed.  That  finished  it  with  me  for  the  night.  I 
thanked  her,  and  said  no  ;  but  I  went  upstairs,  filled  ;  fed  in 
my  heart  with  almost  more  than  I  could  hold  of  unwonted 
tenderness. 

She  treated  me  like  company  ;  almost  like  a  stranger.  In 
one  way,  perhaps,  I  had  become  as  a  stranger,  with  a  strange 
interest,  instead  of  a  familiar  contempt.  I  was  a  girl  with  a 
love-history  about  me  ;  I  was  something  quite  different  from 
little  Anstiss  Dolbeare  ;  for  once,  I  was  "  too  big  a  girl,"  in  a 
way  greatly  to  my  own  advantage. 

Aunt  Ildy's  ideas  and  purposes,  especiallj'  of  good  will, 
were  like  powder-blasting  ;  a  great  deal  of  quiet,  perhaps  care- 
fully secret  drilling,  that  took  a  long  time  ;  then  a  sudden 
touch,  Heaven  knew  how,  to  the  few  grains  of  some  quality  of 
generous  expansiveness  that  ^she  kept  by  her  disguised  in  or- 
dinary in  a  black  inertness  ;  then  a  sudden  outcome,  explosive, 
from  which  one  could  only  stand  aside.  She  would  by  no 
means  let  you  draw  close.  It  was  a  hauds-off,  gunpowder 
beneficence. 

She  did  not  say  a  word  more  to  me  of  our  journey  for  two 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  241 

days ;  then,  all  at  once,  over  some  scalding  sweet-pickle  she 
was  watching  ajt  the  kitchen  fire,  she  lifted  up  her  head  and 
spoke : — 

"  I've  about  made  up  my  mind  to  another  thing.  Your 
uncle  hasn't  any  objection,  and  I  shall  ask  Abby  Hathaway 
to  let  Hope  Devine  go  with  us.  Hand  me  the  skimmer  — 
quick !  There  —  now  the  allspice.  You  may  call  Lucretia 
in  to  lift  the  kettle  off.  Fly  round ! " 
16 


242  HITHERTO  : 


CHAPTER  XVHI. 

BOSTON  ;    AND   THE   HOLGATES. 

NEITHER  Hope  Devine  nor  I  had  ever  been  a  journey  in  the 
cars.  The  railroads  were  yet  a  novelty.  We  had  to  go  down 
to  Palmer  in  the  stage,  a  half-day's  ride  ;  and  beyond  that  the 
steam-rush  of  three  hours  was  a  wonder  and  an  excitement. 

People  felt,  then,  all  the  travel  that  was  concentrated  so 
suddenly  into  such  little  space  of  time,  as  they  have  forgot 
to  feel  it  now.  Nobody  calls  it  travelling  to  go  from  Boston 
to  Berkshire,  to-day ;  it  is  only  stepping  through  the  house 
from  the  front  door  to  the  back  that  opens  into  the  hills.  If 
you  are  really  going  out,  you  don't  more  than  get  your  gloves 
on  as  you  pass  along  the  hall. 

The  grand  hall  that  runs  through  the  old  home  building ! 
It  used  to  be  the  perilous  Bay  Path,  before  the  rooms  were 
all  finished  at  the  rear,  or  the  floor  laid  quite  through.  After- 
ward, it  was  the  pleasant  highway,  beside  which  comfortable 
doors  stood  open  all  along.  We  have  forgotten  about  that, 
now ;  we  don't  know  what  half  the  rooms  are  like ;  we  go 
over  the  whole  world  as  we  read  its  news,  by  captions.  It  is 
just  Alpha  and  Omega ;  we  start  from  some  whence,  and  ai-e 
expressed  through  to  somewhere  ;  we  get  in  at  one  depot,  and 
out  at  another  that  looks  just  like  it ;  as  to  the  between,  — 
oh,  that  was  on  the  back  of  the  railway  check,  or  among  the 
much-crumpled  leaves  of  the  "  Guide." 

Aunt  Ildy  and  Hope  and  I  did  not  go  to  Bosto%  so,  that 
day.  We  knew  that  there  was  to  be  sleight-of-hand  about  it, 
but  we  kept  our  eyes  wide  open  to  the  operation,  and  meant 
to  apprehend  as  much  of  it  as  we  could.  Brains  wouldn't 
stand  the  stretch  of  that  determined  realization  of  detail,  on 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  243 

the  long  modern  routes.  People  soon  learned  to  take  to  their 
railway  libraries,  and  to  leave  off  looking  out  at  windows. 

We  began,  or  Aunt  Ildy  did,  by  laying  in  such  a  stock  of 
provisions  as  one  might  take  now  for  a  seven  days'  journey 
through  to  San  Francisco.  There  was  no  knowing  how  much 
of  an  interval  there  would  be  between  the  arrival  of  the  stage 
and  the  starting  of  the  train  from  Palmer,  or  whether  it  might 
not  be  gone  before  we  got  there.  Steam  was  a  strange,  new 
agent,  not  to  be  blindly  trusted  or  calculated  upon. 

At  any  rate,  we  were  to  dine  out  of  our  basket.  And  a 
very  nice  basket  it  was  to  dine  out  of.  Travelling  was  like 
sickness,  —  an  emergency  that  brought  out  the  most  sacred  of 
Aunt  Ildy's  stores ;  things  from  the  top-shelf  and  the  inside 
cupboard,  set  away  to  "  keep  on  hand."  I  never  quite  realized 
how  these  things  ever  got  used  up.  We  made  them  every 
year  and  put  them  by ;  we  were  hardly  ever  sick,  and  as  to 
journeys  and  exposures  and  needs  in  that  sort,  this  was  the 
first  I  have  memory  of.  I  believe  Aunt  Ildy  secretly  gave 
many  a  good  thing  to  those  whose  emergencies  came  oftener. 
She  would  not  let  her  left  hand  know  it,  if  her  right  hand  did  ; 
it  was  not  her  way  to  own  to  any  tenderness  of  s}Tmpathy  or 
generosity ;  besides,  she  would  not  have  given  her  left  hand 
the  precedent. 

We  had  plum  cake,  made  for  unexpected  company,  and  by 
no  means  brought  out  when  there  was  premeditation  sufficient 
for  beating  up  something  of  the  lighter  kinds,  —  plum-cake 
rich  enough  for  an  unexpected  wedding,  and  whose  flavor 
toned  and  mellowed  with  a  reasonable  age  ;  there  was  a  little 
w.:ite  paper-bag  of  candied  orange-peel,  such  as  nobody  but 
Aunt  Ildy  knew  the  secret  of;  and  there  was  a  small  bottle 
of  her  oldest  cherry  brandy,  since  there  could  be  "  no  know- 
ing," either,  what  might  happen  to  some  of  us  before  we  got 
there.  Something  terrible  might  easily  have  happened,  if  we 
had  been  going  much  farther,  and  if  we  had  kept  on  faithfully 
with  that  basket.  The  cold-boiled  chicken  and  the  buttered 
rolls,  the  rounds  of  pound-cake  gingerbread  and  the  slices  of 
new  cheese,  were  the  pieces  of  resistance. 


244  HITHERTO  : 

11  It  makes  me  feel  so  grand !  "  said  Hope  Devine,  her 
63'es  shining,  and  her  whole  face  lifted  up. 

The  puff  and  the  rush  of  the  first  few  minutes  were  over, 
like  the  tug  and  flap  of  a  great  bird's  wings  as  it  rises,  and 
the  train  had  taken  its  pace,  the  swift,  skimming  shoot  across 
the  country,  that  made  the  post-and-rail  fences  sweep  by  in 
blurred  lines,  and  the  green  fields  scud  under  us,  and  the 
trees  and  the  houses  waltz  around  each  other  and  out  of  sight, 
away  through  the  whole  reach  of  the  shifting  landscape. 

"  It  makes  me  proud  to  be  one  ! " 

"  One  what?  "  said  literal  Aunt  Ildy. 

"  One  —  anybody,"  Hope  answered,  laughing. 

She  took  for  granted  people  knew  what  she  meant.  She 
was  apt  to  speak  in  half  sentences,  and  it  was  easy  for  me  to 
understand  her  so.  The  rest  was  in  her  face. 

Something  kindled  and  flashed  forth  from  her  now,  like  the 
soul  of  the  force  that  was  urging  us  on.  The  pride  and  the 
glory  and  the  triumph  of  humanity  were  exultant  in  Hope 
Devine,  taking  her  first  ride  in  a  common  railroad  car. 

"  It  makes  me  think  of  the  '  powers.'  '  Powers  and  princi- 
palities,' and  the  '  Prince  of  the  power  of  the  air.'  There  are 
such  great  things ;  and  they  seem  so  awful.  And  yet  they 
are  only  things." 

She  went  on  with  something  else,  to  herself,  in  a  tone, 
hushed  just  below  the  covering  rumble  of  the  wheels.  She 
thought  she  spoke  in  secret ;  but  I  heard  a  word  or  two,  and 
I  knew  the  rest. 

"  Nor  life,  nor  death,  nor  principalities,  nor  powers,  nor 
things  present,  nor  things  to  come,  nor  height  nor  depth,  nor 
any  other  creature  —  " 

Her  heart  and  her  face  finished  that  also. 

"  It  doesn't  matter ;  not  even  what's  to  come;  how  much 
they  find  out,  or  what  they  do,  among  the  things,  does  it? 
It's  grand,  and  splendid,  and  it  grows  almost  frightful  with 
the  ever-so-much  of  it,  —  it  crowds  so  ;  but  it  isn't  the  way 
we've  got  to  go,  and  it  can't  hinder,  nor  change  ;  there's  a  short 
way  out  of  it  and  overhead  of  all.  You  can  shut  your  eyes 
and  be  there." 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  245 

Absent  from  these  things  and  present  with  Him.  Hope 
lived  just  so  simply  and  sublimely  close  to  Christ  and  his 
heaven.  The  world  could  not  confuse  her  ;  the  powers  of  the 
air  could  not  stop  her  short  with  their  magnificence,  their 
triumph,  or  their  terror. 

To  go  down  among  the  great  places  of  the  earth  with  her 
would  be  like  going  with  one  of  the  angels. 

Who  knows  what  going  or  doing  are  like  to  any  one,  only 
seeing  the  outside  of  it?  We  were  just  two  country  girls, 
with  a  plain  old  lady  and  a  big  dinner-basket  and  railway 
tickets  on  a  train  to  Boston.  A  train  to  Boston  was  an  old 
story  already.  What  did  our  newness  signify? 

I  think  we  all  felt  grand  when  we  steamed  into  the  little 
old.  Worcester  passenger-house,  among  a  few  street  children, 
gathered  to  "  see  the  cars,"  some  groups  of  people  waiting  to 
meet  friends,  and  a  good  indication  of  future  possibilities  in 
the  way  of  a  hack-driver  throng.  We  were  the  Western  Ex- 
press,—  "Express"  sounded  fine  and  important  in  those 
clays,  —  and  the  rails  were  hot  behind  us  with  our  hurry. 
Aunt  Ildy  sat  up  like  the  prow  of  a  ship  sailing  in  from  far 
seas  to  her  moorings.  Hope's  eyes  were  full  of  light  and 
expectation,  and  I  felt  my  heart  beat  quick  as  I  came  into 
the  beginning  of  the  city  that  I  had  never  seen. 

It  was  a  pleasant  house  that  we  went  to,  in  the  neighbor- 
hood of  Summer  Street  and  Church  Green.  Great  crowns 
of  forest-trees  surged  up  among  the  chimneys,  and  the  side- 
walks were  still  and  shady,  and  the  houses  had  little  gardens 
in  front.  Children  rolled  their  hoops,  and  babies'  carriages 
went  up  and  down,  where  heavy  drays  and  cases  of  merchan- 
dise fill  up  the  whole  street-way  now,  and  block  the  pavement 
before  great  warehouses. 

Boston  was  in  her  pleasant,  young  matronhood,  then. 
"  She  wore  her  own  hair,  as  it  were  ;  and  had  not  capped  it 
with  any  foreign  tawdriness,  or  taken  to  false,  staring  fronts. 
She  had  not  had  her  dear  old  irregular  teeth  out,  that  gave 
half  the  home-sweetness  to  her  smile,  and  replaced  them  with 
the  square,  stiff,  polished  blocks  that  grin  from  old,  care- 
lined,  art-finished  faces. 


246  HITHEKTO: 

Boston  was  individual,  and  not  conglomerate,  as  it  is  to- 
day. There  is  only  a  little  bit  of  the  old  place  left,  now ; 
streets  of  charming  houses  without  any  modern  improvements, 
over  behind  Beacon  Hill,  and  be}*ond  the  State  House.  The 
South  End  is  a  piece  of  New  York  patched  on,  and  Back  Bay 
has  been  filled  up,  and  a  section  of  Paris  dumped  down  into 
it. 

I  am  glad  I  remember  it  as  it  was. 

In  this  still,  simple  Boston,  where,  just  behind  her  busy 
wharves,  there  were  places  to  live  and  to  think  in,  there  wore 
many  things  beginning  besides  railroads  and  steamships. 
We  came  into  the  midst  of  these,  or  the  sound  of  them. 

It  was  the  time  of  the  first  flush  and  ferment  of  rational, 
moral,  physiological,  philanthropic,  transcendental,  aesthetical 
philosophy.  Miss  Sedgwick  had  written  "  Home,"  and  tho 
"Rich  Poor  Man,"  and  "Means  and  Ends;"  "Combe's 
Physiology "  was  being  desperately  studied  in  young  ladies' 
schools.  There  was  unlimited  and  unmitigated  cold  bathing  ; 
and  calisthenics  were  coming  into  vogue.  Theodore  Parker 
was  preaching ;  Emerson  was  thinking  great  thoughts  aloud 
to  a  wondering  world  ;  Brownson  had  come  out  with  "  New 
Views ; "  Margaret  Fuller  was  expanding  the  rare,  strange 
blossom  of  her  womanhood  ;  and  girls  of  seventeen  were  read- 
ing Carlyle.  "The  True,  the  Good,  and  the  Beautiful," 
bound  into  a  watchword,  were  rampant  on  men's  lips.  A 
grand  watch-word  ;  so  is  "  Liberty,  Fraternity,  Equality  ; " 
the  thing  is  to  rise  to  the  real  height  of  it ;  to  reach  by  it  to 
the  more,  not  to  pervert  it  to  an  excuse  for  dropping  to  the 
less,  or  the  worse. 

Coming  to  stay  with  Mrs.  Holgate,  Aunt  Ildy  and  Hope 
Devine  and  I  —  three  diverse  and  unaccustomed  souls  — 
entered  into  the  midst  —  or  the  edge  of  the  midst  —  of  all  this. 

The  Holgates  had  gone  to  a  lecture  when  we  arrived. 
The  "  family-reliance,"  Liefie,  or  Relief,  got  tea  for  us,  and 
made  us  comfortable.  People  had  family-reliances  in  that  old 
time,  which  gave  them  leisure  to  run  after  the  new  ideas. 
Now,  they  have  been  running  after  them  so  long  that  familj'- 
reHances  have  ceased  to  lie  educated,  and  the  stock  has  run 


A    STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  247 

out.  There  is  danger  that  we  may  have  to  begin  anew  this 
circle  of  humanity,  and  not  come  round  to  the  "  true,  the  good, 
and  the  beautiful"  again,  in  the  abstract,  for  a  few  genera- 
tions of  women  more.  , 

Mr.  Holgate  had  been  at  one  .time  concerned  in  a  booksell- 
ing and  publishing  firm.  Mrs.  Holgate  was  a  distant  con- 
nection of  the  Chisms.  The  business  and  the  cousinhood 
together  had  kept  up  a  sort  of  pre-railwayite  intimacy ;  safe 
standing  invitations  were  exchanged ;  "  when  you  come  to 
town,"  or  "  if  you  get  out  our  way,"  which  seldom  happened. 
Yet  now  and  then  Uncle  Royle  spent  a  night  at  the  Holgates', 
when  the  transactions  of  trade  took  him  to  Boston,  or  he  went 
there  to  dinner,  or  for  a  Sunday,  now  and  then,  during  his 
service  in  the  legislature  ;  and  Mrs.  Holgate  and  the  girls  had 
once  been  to  New  Oxford. 

Mrs.  Holgate  was  a  woman  whom  I  should  shortly  describe 
as  having  begun  aesthetics  rather  late  in  life.  They  sat  some- 
how curiously  on  the  substratum  of  homely  habit  and  unintro- 
speclive  common  sense.  She  had  a  way  of  snatching  up  her 
raptures,  as  if  she  had  all  at  once  remembered  them ;  or  of 
making  a  supererogatory  use  of  them,  as  of  a  new  mental 
elegance  or  contrivance,  that  she  had  done  without  all  her 
life,  but  which  it  was  the  right  and  proper  thing  to  find 
essential  and  inevitable  now. 

She  was  stout,  and  looked  externally  what  people  call 
"  settled  down."  Very  much  so,  indeed  ;  and  as  if  the  settling 
had  taken  place  a  long  time  ago,  and  could  not  easily  be  dis- 
turbed ;  as  if  you  would  hardly  expect  new  modes  of  thought 
or  action  from  her,  or  a  new  expression  in  her  face,  any  more 
than  new  ways  of  doing  up  her  hair,  which  women  past  forty 
were  not  apt  to  aflect  in  those  days. 

I  noticed  all  this  of  her  in  five  minutes  after  she  had  come 
in  with  her  daughters,  a  good  deal  heated  with  her  summer- 
evening  walk,  and  looking  as  if  dogdays  and  metaphj'sics 
together  were  considerably  too  much  for  her. 

Boston,  as  I  said,  was  still  green  with  gardens  then ;  and 
there  were  hushes  of  home  quiet  in  cool,  watered  streets  and 
uuprofaned  "  Places,"  where  vines  covered  the  house-fronts 


248  HITHERTO  : 

and  caged  birds  sang  in  the  windows,  that  almost  feigned  a 
feeling  of  the  country  and  the  woods ;  and  people  were  con- 
tent to  abide  there,  for  the  most  part,  even  amid  the  August 
heats. 

The  two  young  ladies  were  bright-looking,  handsome  girls, 
with  hair  tucked  plain  behind  their  ears,  and  prompt,  straight- 
forward manners,  and  a  very  Boston-y  air  of  determined 
sense  and  intellectuality.  A  process-of-culture  expression 
pervaded  themselves  and  the  house.  A  little  anticipative  it 
was,  also,  claiming  result  by  faith  and  purpose.  As  for  in- 
stance, a  reading-stand  in  a  window,  which  we  afterward  found 
to  be  the  younger  sister's  particular  corner,  held  a  large 
German  dictionary  open  upon  it,  and  a  volume  of  "  Schiller" 
in  the  original  rested  beside.  We  noticed  subsequently  that  her 
actual  studies  were  as  yet  limited  to  the  rudiments  of  the 
language,  but  she  set  what  was  to  be  before  herself  and 
others  with  a  truly  apostolic  pressing  forward  to  the  things 
before. 

In  her  children's  babyhood,  Mrs.  Holgate  had  been  simply 
a  little  romantic,  in  an  old-fashion  of  romance  ;  and  had  named 
her  daughters  respectively,  Harriet  Byron  and  Corinna.  At 
the  present  time  she  especially  felicitated  herself  upon  this 
second  baptismal  choice,  which  I  think  she  had  probably 
rather  hit  upon  originally  for  its  prettiness,  than  through  any 
enthusiastic  and  appreciative  intimacy  with  Madame  de 
Stae'l.  Corinna  herself  evidently  blessed  her  fate  in  this  re- 
spect, and  tried  to  live  faithfully  up  to  her  christening,  as 
Harriet  did  to  her  nose,  which  was  rarely  and  delicately 
classic.  Corinna  undertook  severe  literature,  and  deep  re- 
search ;  Harriet  devoted  herself  more  to  the  beautiful  in  art 
and  poetry. 

They  had  been  this  evening  to  a  conversational  class ;  after 
Margaret  Fuller  ;  subject,  "  the  mythology  of  the  Greeks." 

To  unravel  an  old  myth,  —  to  find  the  why  of  it,  —  the 
abstract  principle,  —  this  was  just  now  what  interested  and 
excited  above  all,  and  rewarded  with  its  highest  delight  the 
mental  enterprise  of  a  certain  portion  of  the  young,  progres- 
sive intellect  of  the  city  of  progress. 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  249 

It  was  all  exceedingly  well ;  place  and  time  according  and 
proportionate  ;  but  there  was  a  New  England  excess  in  it  all. 
Eveiybody  must  needs  do  the  same  style  of  thinking ;  and 
they  must  be  at  it  all  the  time.  Because  great  minds  were 
comparing  the  old  and  the  new,  finding  the  lights  that  fall 
from  different  and  far-off  points  in  all  the  ages,  sifting  truths, 
and  giving  grand  abstractions  to  the  world,  all  they  who 
listened,  and  who  were  fired  by  the  watchwords,  Progress ! 
Culture  !  must  dip  into  the  selfsame  abstractions  ;  must  find  a 
myth  in  everything,  and  begin  all  their  sentences  with  adverbs. 

They  were  like  children  rolling  their  forlorn  and  much- 
manipulated  bits  of  dough  from  the  maternal  pie-boards,  till, 
seeing  it,  one  got  sick  of  the  pies  beforehand,  and  mistrusted 
the  whole  baking. 

There  were  circles  and  circles ;  as  there  are  in  everything. 
There  were  those  who  were,  and  those  who  only  ambitioned 
to  be  ;  those  who  rode  their  chariots  of  thought  for  the  sake 
of  the  whither  they  might  bear  them,  and  they  who  liked  the 
equipage  and  its  blazonry,  and  the  stepping  in  and  out  before 
the  eyes  of  the  multitude. 

•  There  were  restless  spirits  also,  to  whom  the  old  was  taste- 
less and  lifeless  ;  who  seized  eagerly  these  roundabout  fashions 
of  coming  back  to  what  they  had  and  knew  already  through 
fresh  and  toilsome  reasonings ;  taking  back  and  forth  from 
each  other's  fingers  the  threads  of  truth  in  a  perpetual  cat's- 
cradle  of  fancied  discovery  and  invention  ;  crying  out  to  each 
other  without  ceasing,  Behold,  now,  that  is  truly  something 
new ;  that,  indeed,  is  wonderful ! 

It  was  a  fever  that  had  its  day ;  that  rages  yet,  as  fever 
always  does,  in  its  breeding  haunts,  whence  it  bursts  forth  now 
and  then  as  epidemic. 

The  Holgates  had  taken  it  —  badly  ;  we  came,  as  it  were, 
into  the  midst  of  an  infection.  Aunt  Ildy  looked  about  her, 
at  first,  in  pure  mystification  ;  then  she  began  to  behave  as  if 
she  thought  they  had  got  a  plague  ;  and  to  go  round  with 
her  nostrils  metaphorically  stuffed,  and  to  do  her  duty  vigor- 
ously, by  scattering,  from  time  to  time,  some  pungent,  if  not 
ill-savoring  antiseptics. 


250  HITHERTO  : 

It  was  certainly  a  change  for  me,  and  a  break  upon  the  old, 
wearing  lines  of  thought ;  but  it  was  not  precisely  what  Aunt 
Ildy  had  meant  and  looked  for. 

It  stirred  in  me  some  of  my  own  old  wonderings  and  spec- 
ulations ;  I  could  not  help  entering  into  it  enough  to  find  out 
a  little  of  what  it  was  ;  sometimes  I  got  light,  and  sometimes 
I  grew  confused. 

But  I  was  stayed  on  the  right  and  left, —  by  Aunt  Ildy's  un- 
compromising orthodoxy  and  sarcastic  practicality  ;  by  Hope 
Devine's  strange,  straight  vision,  right  through  all  mysticism 
and  bewilderment,  to  what  truly  was. 

I  do  not  believe  that  in  all  the  community,  so  touched  with 
strange  fire,  there  was  such  a  curious  conjunction  of  elements, 
to  test  and  neutralize  each,  other  and  evolve  some  safe  result 
of  life  to  a  true  longing  for  the  living  reality,  as  was  met  here 
in  Mrs.  Holgate's  house. 

I  remember  bits  of  conversation,  that  sprang  up  now  and 
then,  over  a  breakfast  or  a  tea,  —  after  a  chapter  of  some 
new  book,  or  a  surprising  modern  aphorism,  or  a  fresh  "  Orphic 
saying ; "  or  in  our  rooms  at  night,  between  Hope  and  me,  and 
sometimes  with  Aunt  Ildy,  also,  when  we  asked  each  other 
how  it  all  seemed,  and  what  we  supposed  would  be  the  upshot 
and  the  outcome  of  it  all. 

I  remember  little  momentary  situations,  and  the  look  of 
everybody,  stamped  like  a  picture  upon  my  imagination  by 
the  force  of  some  sudden  peculiarity  of  act  or  word. 

I  shall  never  forget  how  funnily  Corinua  Holgate  startled  us 
one  day,  as  we  all  sat  in  the  back  parlor  with  our  different 
morning  work, —  she  in  her  window  with  portfolio  on  lap,  and 
various  sheets  of  scribbled  paper  lying  about  her,  on  which 
she  was  making  up  some  abstract  of  a  "  conversational,"  or 
sketching  some  outline  of  ideas  preparatory  to  one  that  was 
to  be. 

Still  on  the  Grecian  myths  ;  still  puzzling  for  clever  solu- 
tions and  brilliant  suggestions  ;  trying  to  recollect  clearly 
what  had  been  propounded  and  explained  last  time,  or  put 
forth  in  questions  to  be  answered  next. 

"  Why"  she  demanded  electrically,  like  a  thunder-clap  out 


A   STORY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  25t 

of  a  far-off  cloud  of  philosophic  abstraction,  across  the  un- 
thinking and  unexpectant  summer  silence  of  our  common- 
place,—  '•'•why  was  Venus  fabled  to  have  arisen  from  the  foam 
of  the  sea?" 

"  Because  you  must  be  clean  before  you  can  be  beautiful ! " 
shot  back  Aunt  Ildy,  quick  as  a  flash, —  an  irony  of  common 
sense  out  of  a  swift,  frowning  cloud  of  contempt. 

Hope  and  I  laughed.  Harriet  and  Mrs.  Holgate,  slow  to 
receive  and  discern,  looked  up  as  if  they  did  not  quite  know 
whether  it  were  meant  as  Orphic  or  not ;  but  Corinna,  after  a 
second's  breathlessness,  jumped  to  her  feet,  let  fall  her  papers 
in  a  Sibylline  shower,  rushed  to  Miss  Chism,  and,  dropping  on 
a  cricket  at  her  feet,  accepted  her  and  her  word  as  an  advent 
and  an  inspiration. 

"  Why,  that's  grand  !  "  she  cried.  "  That's  a  real  thought ! 
That's  insight !  I've  found  —  a  soul ! " 

"  Better  keep  quiet  about  your  luck,  then,"  said  Miss  Chism, 
drawing  away  her  knitting-yarn  from  under  Corinna's  elbow, 
and  shifting  slightly  her  position  away  from  the  heroics.  "  A 
chicken  doesn't  peep  when  it's  really  got  its  mouth  full ! " 

Corinna  did  not  care  a  bit  for  her  snubbing.  It  was  only  a 
spur. 

"Why  won't  you  own  up?  You  do  think,  Miss  Chism. 
What  do  you  deny  yourself  for?"  And  then  she  quoted 
Emerson ;  about  "  our  own  rejected  thought  returning  to  us 
with  a  kind  of  offended  majesty,  from  the  lips  of  others." 

It  was  sufficiently  ridiculous ;  and  I  believed,  myself,  that 
Corinna  was  half  funny  and  dexterous  in  defence,  as  a  bright 
girl  might  be,  and  half  in  earnest,  determined  to  win  Aunt 
Ildy  over. 

"  Whatever  I  think,  I  choose  to  think,  and  be  done  with  it ; 
I  wasn't  made  to  chew  a  cud  —  or  to  count  my  breaths,  to  see 
how  many  I  take  in  a  day." 

"  Miss  Ildy  !  You're  epigrammatic !  You  don't  know  how 
clever  you  are  !  " 

"There  —  let  me  alone!  Don't  snarl  my  yarn!  I  don't 
believe  you  know  how  big  a  fool  you  are,  or  will  be  if  you  go 
on!" 


252  HITHERTO: 

"  I  mean  to  go  on  till  I  have  found  out,  and  that's  the  height 
and  'extreme  small  apex  of  human  knowledge.  See  how 
you've  snarled  my  yarn  !  " 

And  she  went  back  and  began  to  gather  up  her  scattered 
papers. 

Aunt  Ildy  liked  the  girls,  —  their  fresh,  modern  brightness, 
and  their  prettiness ;  especially  Comma's  good-humored  dar- 
ing, so  different  from  what  she  had  hitherto  encountered  ;  if 
it  had  not  been  for  these  things,  and  Mrs.  Holgate's  genuine, 
old-fashioned,  glad-to-see-you  hospitality,  which  all  her  tran- 
scendentalism could  not  alter  or  affect,  she  would  have  gone 
home. 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  253 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

SARTOR  RESARTUS. 

"Ix's  the  queerness  of  it,"  said  Hope.  "  They're  at  such 
great  trouble  to  do  things  over  again.  It  is  just  as  if  people 
should  go  to  contriving  shoes,  or  how  to  make  wheat  into 
bread,  when  they  have  been  fed  and  shod  all  their  lives  long. 
"Why  can't  they  take  what  there  is  in  the  world  ?  " 

"  There  are  thoughts  to-day  that  haven't  been  always,"  said 
Corinna. 

"  New  receipts,"  said  Aunt  Ildy. 

"  There's  growth,  you  know,"  said  Mrs.  Holgate,  "  growth, 
and  evolution ;  evolution"  she  repeated,  as  if  she  had  groped 
against  that  landmark  in  the  dark,  and  so  laid  fast  hold  of  it 
with  both  hands,  valiantly.  "Who  was  it  said  it,  Corinna, — 
'  Everything  becomes  ;  act  and  being  blossom '  ?  That  was 
beautiful." 

"  Not  altogether  new  though.  Carlyle  says  it.  '  Cast  forth 
thy  Act,  thy  Word,  into  the  ever-living,  ever- working  Universe  ; 
it  is  a  seed-grain  that  cannot  die  ;  unnoticed  to-day,  it  will  be 
found  nourishing  as  a  Banyan  grove,  —  perhaps,  alas  !  as  a 
hemlock  forest,  —  after  a  thousand  years.' " 

"It  is  older  than  that,"  said  Hope,  quietly, not  a  whit  over- 
awed by  hearing  Carlyle  quoted  for  the  first  time. 

"  '  The  kingdom  of  heaven  is  like  unto  a  grain  of  mustard- 
seed.'  I  think  it  was  all  said, — all  that  we  ever  come  to; 
and  that,  after  all  our  wondering  and  puzzling  and  hard  work,  we 
go  back  and  find  it  there.  We  invent  the  bread,  and  there's 
the  loaf  in  the  closet." 

"  But  it  has  to  be  so,  always,"  said  Corinna,  eagerly. 
"  Emerson  says,  '  No  one  can  find  in  history  what  he  has  not 


254  HITHERTO: 

first  found  in  himself.'     Nor  in  revelation  any  more,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"  That  was  all  told  us  too,  at  the  beginning.  '  We  speak 
that  we  do  know,  and  testify  that  we  have  seen,  and  ye  receive 
not  our  witness.'  '  If  I  have  told  you  earthly  things  and  ye 
believe  not,  how  shall  ye  believe  if  I  tell  you  of  heavenly 
things  ? '  How  can  they  think  they  say  these  things  for  the 
first  time?" 

"  Anyway,  it  comes  back  to  the  same.  We  must  grow  to 
it." 

"  And  we  cannot  of  ourselves  add  one  cubit  to  our  stature. 
Growing  is  living." 

"  Yes,  answered  Corinna,  quoting  Emerson  again.  "  '  What 
truth  you  have,  live  it,  and  so  have  more.' " 

"  '  To  him  that  hath,  shall  be  given  and  he  shall  have  abun- 
dance ; '  '  Do  the  will,  and  ye  shall  know  of  the  doctrine  ; '  and 
besides  that/'  went  on  Hope,  warming  into  self-forgetful- 
ness,  and  that  bright-shining  coming  into  her  eyes; — the 
same  word  says, '  I  that  am  the  Truth,  am  the  Life.  No  man 
cometh  unto  the  Father,  but  by  me.'  Growing  is  living  ;  and 
living  is  given.  '  Keep  the  commandments,  and  I  will  mani- 
fest myself —  I  do  believe  it  is  all  there  —  and  a  great  deal 
more.  I  do  not  think  I  am  afraid  to  say  that  I  feel  as  if  I 
could  get  along  without  Emerson." 

"  I  dare  say  he  would  tell  you  so  himself.  That  it  was  just 
what  you  must  do." 

"  I  dare  say  he  would.  And  there  is  where  he  stops  with 
his  new  word,  —  just  where  I  want  help.  The  other  says, 
'  Come  unto  me  ;  abide  with  me,  and  I  will  give  you  everlast- 
ing life.'  " 

Hope's  voice  had  lowered.  Her  cheek  was  crimson  with 
the  intensity  of  her  impulse.  There  was  a  softer  shining  in 
her  eyes  now,  —  the  shining  up  to  the  golden  light  of  the 
pure  spring  of  her  tears  ;  they  only  shone,  not  fell ;  she  said 
no  more,  but  presently  putting  together  some  little  things  of 
ours  that  were  to  go  upstairs,  she  took  them  in  her  hands  and 
went  away. 

"  She's  a  good  girl,"  said  Aunt  Ildy ;  "  there's  a  Dealing 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  255 

| 

with  her,  I  don't  doubt.     All  aint  brought  in  the  same  way, 
nor  don't  have  the  same  evidences." 

That  was  the  end  of  it  for  then  ;  the  extremes  touched  ; 
that  which  was  all  charged  and  quick  with  thrills  and  sparkles 
was  neutralized  into  dead  tranquillity. 

We  were  going  out  that  morning.  We  all  went,  present^, 
and  put  on  our  things.  Corinna  had  a  German  lesson,  and 
Harriet  wanted  to  buy  crayons  ;  Mrs.  Holgate  had  people  to 
see,  and  black  silk  to  match  for  new  sleeves  to  her  second- 
best  gown  ;  and  Aunt  Hdy  and  Hope  and  I  had  the  inevitable 
shopping  of  country  visitors  to  town. 

It 'was  the  dear,  old,  mixed-up  Washington  Street,  then, 
where  everything  was  small  and  wedged  together,  and  you 
knew  your  way  by  the  angles  and  corners,  and  nothing  stared 
out  at  you  through  great  plate  glass,  but  you  must  know 
enough  to  begin  with  to  go  in  and  inquire. 

Up  on  Trernont  Row  they  had  some  new  stores,  and  the 
first  great,  showy  dry-goods  warehouse  was  just  finished 
between  Franklin  and  Summer  Streets ;  but  people  shook 
their  heads  at  it  as  at  something  more  than  doubtfully  flashy 
and  fast,  and  old  ladies  got  bewildered  in  being  battledored 
from  counter  to  counter  under  the  new  department  system, 
and  bobbed  little  courtesies,  and  dodged  right  and  left  to  let 
the  other  bobbing  and  courtesying  old  ladies  pass,  when  they 
came  up  against  their  own  images  in  the  great  mirrors  at  the 
back. 

Old  Mrs.  Gregory  hadn't  done  selling  caps  and  ribbons  and 
laces  in  her  mysterious  bonnet,  nor  had  Mrs.  Peverelly's  sign 
been  taken  down  from  the  confectionery  in. the  "jog."  It  is 
of  no  use  to  tell  people  in  general  how  we  bought  shoes  at 
Williams's,  and  carpets  at  Gulliver's,  and  threads  and  needles 
and  Berlin  wools  in  the  narrow  two  stories  at  Whitney's,  and 
things  unattainable  elsewhere,  at  Quincy  Tufts'.  Boston  peo- 
ple, who  have  lived  long  enough,  remember  ;  and  nobody  else 
understands  or  cares  ;  but  there  was  something  cosey  and  self- 
gratulatory  in  the  shopping  of  those  days,  when  one  found  out  _ 
things  and  places,  and  there  was  a  cleverness  in  doing  it ; 
when  a  buying  was  a  particular  and  personal  having,  because 


256  HITHERTO: 

| 

there  were  not  inexhaustible  cases  and  cargoes  of  everything 
to  supply  a  thousand  people  just  alike,  and  dress  and  trim  them 
all  in  uniform,  from  their  hair  down. 

Hope  liked  it ;  it  called  out  her  Monday-and-Saturday  fac- 
ulty ;  she  could  organize  the  whole  expedition  in  her  head 
beforehand ;  when  she  was  with  us  we  seldom  had  to  retrace 
or  double  upon  our  steps  ;  she  put  us  in  mind  of  all  we  wanted, 
just  when  we  were  where  we  could  do  the  errands ;  eveiy- 
thing  fell  out,  and  fell  in,  beautifully  ;  it  was  a  kind  of  blos- 
soming of  business  ;  and  Aunt  Ildy  was  in  her  serenest  good- 
humor  with  us  all. 

It  was  wonderful  how  much  Hope  saw  in  the  streets  ;  «how, 
brushing  against  a  stranger,  she  somehow  touched  not  an 
elbow,  but  a  human  life.  She  had  no  n'eed  to  look  away  back 
to  the  old  Greeks,  this  golden-eyed  girl,  to  read  deep  words 
and  truths  of  love  and  beauty ;  they  were  nigh  to  her,  about 
her  daily  path,  offering  their  gracious  text  at  every  hand. 

Quickened  to  notice  and  compare,  by  all  I  saw  of  the  new 
life  —  the  strain  after  life  —  at  the  Holgates',  I  recognized 
this  more  than  ever. 

I  think,  remembering  at  this  after  time,  that  rarely,  if  ever, 
was  a  day  passed,  or  an  outgoing  made,  however  simply,  in 
Hope's  company,  that  the  time  and  the  going  were  not  crowned 
and  fulfilled,  by  some  happening  or  perception,  some  meaning 
and  interest,  that  were  like  the  harvest  of  the  hour. 

We  had  just  got  a  new  cap  for  Aunt  Hdy,  and  were  turning 
down  toward  Widdifield's,  about  her  glasses,  which  was  our 
last  business,  when  before  us  on  the  pavement  a  group  of  three 
passed  by. 

A  lady  in  silk  and  lace  ;  a  child,  —  a  little  girl,  —  with 
dainty  bonnet  and  delicate  kid  gloves,  and  bits  of  French 
boots,  such  as  then  replaced  only  occasionally  the  simple 
walking-shoes  still  worn ;  behind  them,  keeping  eagerly  close, 
almost  touching  them,  yet  carefully  preserving  such  angle  of 
position  that  her  following  should  not  be  obvious  to  the  lady ; 
(there  were  sides  to  bonnets  then  ;  I  wonder  if  they  have  been 
left  off  since  on  the  same  principle  that  horses'  blinders  have, 
—  that  we  needn't  shy  at  anything?)  .now  and  then  venturing 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  257 

a  finger,  softly,  upon  the  muslin  folds  of  the  little  one's  rose- 
colored  dress  ;  she  herself,  this  last,  in  an  old,  limp,  faded 
calico,  wearing  down-trodden  shoes  and  much-bedinged  stock- 
ings ;  a  sun-scorched  bonnet,  tied  under  the  chin  with  ribbon 
that  had  ceased  to  be  anything  but  string ;  bare  hands,  and 
hair  filling  up  untidily  the  bent  bonnet-brim,  and  hanging 
below  the  crumpled  cape  ;  turning  her  toes  out,  and  falling,  it 
seemed  unconsciously,  into  a  step  and  air  the  parody  of  that 
before  her  ;  wearing,  all  the  while,  a  kind  of  happy  dream-look 
in  the  eyes,  and  a  smile  under  the  shadow  of  the  shabby  straw, 
that  told  of  some  absorption  and  some  satisfying  beyond  and 
against  the  accounting  for  of  appearance. 

Hope  and  I  were  together ;  Aunt  Ildy  walked  a  little  behind ; 
Hope  was  close  to  the  common,  shabby,  yet  not  ragged  or  suf- 
fering-looking child  ;  something  lightened  in  her  face  answer- 
ing to  the  look  in  the  girl's  ;  it  was  as  if  the  two  were  speaking 
a  secret  language. 

All  at  once,  the  mother,  holding  her  daughter's  hand, 
stopped  before  a  window  in  which  hung  delicate  French  prints 
and  lawns.  There  was  one  with  small  purple  shamrocks  on  a 
white  ground  ;  the  little  clustered  trefoils,  with  their  crossed 
stems,  dropped  all  over  it  in  a  violet  shower. 

"  There,  that  would  do  for  you,  Susie,  dear !  "  And  by  her 
sudden  stop,  and  the  passing  of  the  contrary  current  on  the 
narrow  walk,  we  were  all  held  in  an  instant's  pause. 

Aunt  Ildy,  rather  indignant,  pressed  by,  and  'moved  on 
first ;  Hope  caught  my  hand,  and  lingered.  Amongst  us,  the 
calico  gown  and  the  rusty  bonnet  were  nearly  hidden  for  the 
second  or  two,  and  in  these  we  heard  a  little  voice,  thinking 
itself  covered  up  and  hidden  also,  that  said,  softly,  as  the  two 
passed  into  the  shop  :  — 

"  So  it  will.  For  Susie,  dear,  —  and  me,  dear.  Just  alike. 
I'll  stand  outside  and  look  at  the  folks,  ma." 

And  the  little  untidy  thing  stood  up  on  the  doorstep,  and 
let  us  go  by. 

"Just  think   of  that!"    cried   Hope.      "Don't  you   see? 
She's  making  believe  it's  her  mother,  and  that  she's  another, 
and  belongs  to  them.     I  know  !  " 
17 


258  HITHERTO:    • 

"Poor  thing!  What's  the  use?"  said  I,  only  pitying  the 
delusion.  . 

"  Use  !  "  exclaimed  Hope.  "  It's  true  —  somewhere. 
There's  a  mother-love  for  her  somewhere  —  and  a  giving  — 
just  as  much.  There's  an  inside  world !  This  only  stands 
for  it.  And  that  lady,  —  and  most  folks,  —  for  a  little  more 
than  they  know  of,  that's  all." 

When  we  got  home,  Mrs.  Holgate  asked  us  if  we  had  been 
in  at  the  Athenaeum  again. 

"  We  didn't  have  time,"  said  Hope. 

"You  did  all  j'our  shopping,  I  suppose?"  Corinna  asked, 
a  little  satirically. 

"  All  for  to-day.     Yes." 

"  I  waited  for  you  there,  awhile,"  said  Harriet.  "  I've  been 
nearly  all  the  morning  among  those  casts  of  the  antiques." 

"  I  like  the  pictured  best,"  said  Hope. 

Hope  was  a  little  bit  shocked  at  standing  face  to  face  with 
the  Venuses,  and  had  been  half  afraid,  I  think,  of  the  Laocoon. 

"  You  don't  understand  the  antiques,"  said  Mrs.  Holgate, 
forbearingly. 

'i  I  don't  think  I  do,  ma'am,"  answered  Hope,  simply.  "  At 
least,  I  understand  some  other  things  easier." 

They  did  keep  at  it  all  the  time.  First  one  thing  and 
then  another :  Ethics,  aesthetics,  metaphysics.  What  this 
said,  that  preached,  and  the  other  wrote.  Everybody  had  a 
tug  at  the  Sphinx.  Life  was  well-nigh  ciphered  with  their 
deciphering  ;  reduced  to  hopeless  shreds  with  their  anatomiz- 
ing. Aunt  Ildy  quoted  "  Mother  Goose  "  :  — 

"  The  sow  came  in  with  the  saddle, 
The  little  pig  rocked  the  cradle  ; 
The  dish  jumped  up  on  the  table 
To  see  the  pot  swallow  the  ladle  ; 
The  spit  that  stood  behind  the  door 
Threw  the  pudding-stick  on  the  floor. 
Oddsplut  !  said  the  gridiron.     Can't  you  agree  ? 
I'm  the  head  Constable.     Bring  'em  to  me  ! " 

But  where  was  the  head  constable?    Where  was  (Edipus? 


A    STOliY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  259 

I,  with  a  disquiet  in  my  own  experience  that  answered  to 
this  outward  surging,  looked  on  ;  watching  if  any  help  might 
come  of  it  to  me. 

Two  days  later  there  was  an  afternoon  reading  at  the 
house.  Aunt  Ildy  went  upstairs  and  took  a  nap.  Hope  and 
I  got  into  a  corner. 

Everybody  looked  very  wise  and  strong.  It  was  the  look 
beforehand,  like  the  Schiller  on  the  reading-stand.  They 
seemed  so  certain  of  what  they  were  coming  to  ;  at  least,  that 
they  were  surely  coming  to  something. 

I,  doubting  so  painfully  what  I  was  coming  to,  —  or  if  to 
anything,  — questioning  so  of  life,  that  with  me  had  got  into 
a  hard  knot  at  the  very  outset  of  the  unwinding,  —  questioned 
also  of  all  that  came  in  my  way ;  if  haply  any  sign  might 
direct  me  right  ^  if  I  might  catch  any  loop  of  hope  or  clear- 
ness, through  which  my  thread  might  run  smooth  again  into 
my  hand. 

I  wondered  if  they  brought  any  word  of  fate  to  me,  —  these 
seekers  ;  these  repeaters  after  greater  seekers  ;  these  passers- 
on  of  telegraphic  meanings  and  solemn  watchwords. 

I  was  half  vexed  with  Hope,  quietly  busy  with  her  netting 
of  a  cake-napkin  for  Aunt  Ildy,  apparently  untouched  with 
any  momentousness  or  expectation ;  forgetful  that  "  such 
drawing-room  was  simply  a  section  of  infinite  space,  where  so 
many  God-created  souls  did  for  the  time  meet  together." 
Clothed  she  was,  comfortably  ;  in  her  contented  every-day 
life  ;  in  the  simple  outward  that  was  given  her  ;  in  no  haste  to 
strip  her  being  down  to  the  mysterious,  naked  Me  of  the  meta- 
physics. Clothed,  and  in  her  right  mind,  I  wonder,  as  God 
meant  her  to  be  ?  Not  denuded,  cutting  herself  with  stones, 
driven  by  the  legion? 

I  thought  of  this  afterward  ;  I  think  of  it  now,  when  I  can 
look  back  and  remember  how  the  Lord  held  her,  then  and 
always,  safely  and  tenderly,  at  his  feet. 

I  had  got  hold  of  "  Sartor  Kesartus  "  since  I  had  been  here ; 
its  strong,  bold  sentences  had  taken  a  grasp  of  me  ;  I  thought 
I  found  there  things  I  had  not  known  before. 

What  signified  the  shifting  relations  of  neighbor  atoms  if 


260  HITHERTO: 

we  were  indeed  but  atoms  in  the  All  ?  Could  I  be  content 
with  that?  Could  I  be  a  part  of  the  great  shining,  —  the 
universal  joy?  Was  this  self-losing?  The  divine  end  ? 

Out  of  some  individual  restlessness  must  always  come  this 
grasping  forth  into  the  vague,  this  flinging  back  of  life  into 
the  impersonal.  I  think  I  know  better  now  ;  that  "  we  would 
not  be  unclothed,  but  clothed  upon,"  when  most  "  in  this 
tabernacle  we  do  groan,  being  burdened ; "  that  each  living- 
out  of  God's  meaning  is  a  piece  of  his  own  beauty,  and  a  per- 
sonal blessedness,  laid  up  for  each  from  the  beginning ;  that 
so  only  we  give  back  into  his  glory ;  that  it  was  so  Jesus 
gave  his  flesh,  —  his  mortal  living  and  embodiment,  —  for  the 
life  of  the  world.  That  we  must  wear  the  raiment  he  puts 
upon  us,  with  simple  believing,  till  he  changes  it  for  the  white 
robe  of  an  eternal  purity  and  peace. 

To-day  I  was  eager,  feverish  ;  P  laid  a  mental  clutch  upon 
every  word ;  I  wanted  all  at  once  .to  come  into  my  inherit- 
ance. There  are  other  prodigals  than  they  who  demand 
their  patrimony  to  squander  in  riotous  outward  living. 

They  brought  in  treasures  like  the  Forty  Thieves  ;  each  had 
found  something  rich  or  sparkling ;  there  was  much  reading, 
much  talking  over  what  was  read  ;  much  rejoicing  over  great 
words,  Sesames  of  absolute  truth  ;  after  all,  they  went  away, 
leaving  me  confused  and  hungry,  like  one  who  wakes  from  a 
dream  of  sumptuous  food. 

I  carried  the  "  Tailor  Sewed  Over  "  upstairs  with  me  that 
night.  I  wanted  to  make  Hope  talk  about  it. 

I  sat  reading  while  she  brushed  her  long,  bright  hair.  I 
had  just  let  mine  down,  and  left  it  so.  It  was  different  from 
hers,  as  the  working  of  the  brain  beneath  it ;  capable  of 
catching  a  gleam  in  the  quick  light,  but  in  the  shadow  dusky, 
neutral,  dun-colored.  Hers  shone  from  itself.  I  pushed  my 
hands  up  among  the  fallen  locks  against  my  temples,  and 
leaned  so  over  the  book. 

"  It's  just  what  you  say  yourself,"  I  broke  out,  presently, 
to  Hope,  without  preface,  and  without  lifting  my  eyes. 

I  spoke  as  if  she  had  disputed  something.  I  felt  in  rny 
mind,  magnetically,  the  feeling  of  hers  ;  that  she  was  wistful 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  261 

of  my  occupation,  —  wistful  also  of  a  better^  fuller  help  for 
me.  I  knew  she  understood,  with  her  strange  intuition, 
having  hardly  looked  into  any  philosophy,  that  no  philoso- 
phy would  answer  me. 

I  read  from  the  page  before  me  :  — 

"  '  All  visible  things  are  emblems.  Matter  exists  only 
spiritually,  to  represent  some  Idea,  and  body  it  forth.' 
You're  always  saying  it,  Hope.  You  say  '  It's  all  true,  some- 
how ;  everything  means  something  ;  you  can't  see  what  there 
isn't ;  there's  an  inside  world.'  Why  don't  you  like  this  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  it  much ;  but  it  seems  to  stop"  said  Hope. 
"  It's  the  difference  between  a  word  in  a  dictionary,  or  a  sen- 
tence in  a  grammar,  and  a  word  spoken  by  somebody  right  to 
me.  It  may  be  a  very  beautiful  word  ;  the  sentence  may  have 
the  parts  of  speech  all  right,  ready  for  parsing  ;  but  it's  spell- 
ing and  parsing,  after  all ;  what  the  words  were  really  meant 
for  was  to  speak  with.  I  want  to  be  spoken  to;  and  so  do  you, 
Anstiss.  I  think  they  are  so  busy  parsing,  that  they  forget 
to  listen.  Their  bright  thinking  makes  me  feel  cold,"  she 
went  on  after  a  pause,  "  and  the  hard  work  of  it  tires  me.  It 
is  like  the  fishermen  toiling  all  night  and  catching  nothing, 
till  the  Lord  came,  in  the  morning,  and  told  them  where  to 
cast  their  nets,  and  gave  them  what  they  wanted.  I  have  to 
come  back  to  this,  to  get  warmed  and  rested,  always." 

And  Hope  sat  down  in  the  chair  opposite  mine,  and  took 
into  her  hands  her  Bible  from  the  little  book-table. 

"  Wait  a  minute,"  she  began  again,  as  I  turned  back  to  my 
Caiiyle.  "  See  how  live  this  is,  after  that.  And  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  this,  is  it  likely,  I  wonder,  that  that  man  would  ever 
have  got  at  the  other  ?  " 

So  she  read  the  beginning  of  the  Gospel  according  to  St. 
John.  Those  wonderful  eighteen  verses  that  are  the  spiritual 
epic  of  creation  and  redemption. 

"  God  spoke  from  the  beginning  ;  and  his  speech  was  Him- 
self. All  things  are  his  words  and  his  meanings,  and  without 
them  was  not  anything  made.  In  this  word  of  love  are  the 
life  and  the  light  of  men  ;  but  it  shone  in  darkness  that  un- 
derstood it  not.  There  were  men  sent  to  bear  witness.  John 


262  HITHERTO  : 

came.  He  was  not  that  Light ;  he  was  not  all  God  had  to 
say ;  no  man  is ;  he  only  saw,  and  interpreted.  The  true 
Light  lighteth  eveiy  man.  Each  may  have  a  little  ;  may  be  a 
letter  of  the  word.  Yet  the  world  knew  it  not.  Even  his 
own  received  him  not,  knowing  it  to  be  He.  Therefore  came 
the  Word,  at  last,  once  for  all,  in  the  flesh ;  this  whole 
thought  of  God  in  and  for  his  world,  that  was  Himself,  —  in  a 
human  life,  and  dwelt  among  us  ;  it  touched  us  with  grace  and 
truth  ;  it  translated  to  us  the  hidden  glory  of  the  Father.  No 
man  hath  seen  God  at  any  time  ;  this  only  begotten,  which  is 
in  his  own  bosom,  hath  declared  him." 

That  was  the  fresh,  live  meaning  that  ran  through  the  old, 
worn  words,  as  she  read  them  over ;  something  of  that  she 
made  me  feel,  then,  in  her  feeling  of  them.  It  was  in  her  voice, 
her  emphasis,  her  pauses.  The  soul  of  the  sublime  language 
was  in  her  eyes,  and  lightened  upon  me.  But  I  felt  as  if  I 
could  not  have  got  it  for  myself. 

"  Somebody  must  always  help  me,  Hope,"  I  said  ;  "  you  or 
Emerson,  or  Carlyle.  I  must  get  it  where  I  can." 

I  thought,  as  I  spoke,  of  Red  Hill,  and  the  interpretation  I 
had  waited  years  for,  and  that  Grandon  Cope  had  given  me. 
Of  how  he  quickened  me  with  his  own  insight,  till  I,  too, 
could  see ;  till  I  could,  also,  count  the  stones  in  the  wall  of 
the  New  Jerusalem.  I  had  been  near  beholding  the  glory, 
and  living  in  the  light  of  it.  I  had  told  Richard,  then,  as  if  I 
knew,  how  all  creation  was  a  "  talk."  I  had  been  impatient 
with  him  because  he  did  not  see  what  I  thought  I  saw.  It 
came  back  to  me  now,  with  a  meaning  that  I  had  not  known 
myself. 

Since,  —  and  such  a  little  since,  —  the  cloud  of  my  life  had 
shut  in  the  shining  ;  my  mistakes  had  bewildered  me,  and  sent 
me  astray ;  I  could  not  distinguish  the  voices  ;  pain  and  re- 
proach assailed  me  ;  there  was  only  a  cry  in  my  own  heart ; 
the  world  about  me  had  grown  dumb  again. 

"  I  don't  believe  it  comes  with  much  looking  for,  or  with 
telling  back  and  forth,  as  some  of  these  people  seem  to  think. 
It  isn't  '  with  observation.'  The  Lord  himself  gives  it, 
*  within  us.'  " 


A   STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  263 

Up  and  down  the  page  of  the  book  I  held,  my  eye  still  ran, 
mechanically  ;  and  still  the  words  read  like  great  words  ;  why 
were  they  not  worth  while  ?  Who  knew  that  they  might  not 
have  been  "  given"  also? 

"  I  do  not  say,"  said  Hope,  to  my  demand  of  this.  "  It 
only  seems  to  me  as  if  they  climbed  up  their  own  way  into 
the  sheepfold,  when  all  the  time  the  Door  is  open.  As  if 
they  tried  to  begin  again,  and  do  it  themselves.  And  that  is 
the  losing  and  the  hard  work." 

"  See  here,"  I  said,  hardly  noticing  her  word.  "  '  If  you 
consider  it,  what  is  Man  himself,  and  his  whole  terrestrial 
life,  but  an  Emblem  ;  a  clothing,  or  visible  Garment  for  that 
divine  Me  of  his,  cast  hither,  like  a  light-particle,  down  from 
heaven  ?  "; 

"  Still  it  is  only  like  parsing.  Can  he  tell  us  what  to  do 
with  the  Me,  when  we  have  found  that  it  is  there  ?  Or  what 
shall  ever  become  of  it?  It  is  the  Me  that  puzzles  us." 

"  Has  anybody  iw-puzzled  us  ?  " 

"  Certain,  Anstiss."  Tender,  and  reverent,  hurt  gently 
with  my  assumed  doubt,  was  Hope's  utterance  of  this  peculiar 
word  of  hers.  "  '  The  life  is  more  than  meat,  and  the  body  is 
more  than  raiment.'  He  did  not  leave  us  to  wait  for  Mr.  Car- 
lyle  to  say  that.  But  we  must  wait  for  Him  to  say,  '  Yet 
the  very  hairs  of  your  head  are  all  numbered.'  '  Consider  the 
ravens  ;  consider  the  lilies  ;  how  God  clothes  and  feeds  them 
—  and  you.  Ye  are  not  able  to  do  the  thing  that  is  least ; 
why  are  ye  troubled  about  the  rest  ?  Fear  not,  little  flock  ;  it 
is  your  Father's  good  pleasure  to  give  you  the  kingdom  ! ' ' 

Curly le's  "  All "  was  not  like  this.  Nor  the  clothing  of  his 
light-particles.  Still,  neither  is  chemistry  the  law  of  love ; 
yet  these  things  are  analogous ;  they  help.  They  had  a 
charm  for  me,  they  illustrated  ineffable  things.  I  remembered 
the  old  thrill  of  my  school-days,  when  I  learned  of  the  inter- 
pretation of  the  gases,  and  straightway  saw  its  spiritual 
meaning. 

Hope  rested  me  ;  reminded  and  reassured  me  ;  yet  I  could 
not  see  why  she  could  not  welcome  these  things  also.  They 


264  HITHERTO: 

were  so  like   herself  in  much  ;  they  put  in  grander  words  so 
many  things  that  she  said  simply. 

I  know,  now,  the  difference  ;  the  difference  that  made  her 
shrink.  Out  of  her  simple  faith  —  her  receiving  the  king- 
dom of  heaven  as  a  little  child  —  grew  her  living  thought, 
the  gift  of  the  loving  Spirit ;  she  was  afraid  of  cold  thinking 
that  should  try  to  replace  faith.  She  was  afraid  of  anything 
that  seemed  to  "  find  itself  out ;  "  that  could  not  see  how  it 
was  "  all  there,  beforehand,"  in  the  perfect  word  that  teaches 
all  things  and  saves  to  the  uttermost. 

By  and  by,  this  "  all  and  more "  that  she  kept  bringing 
from  the  heavenly  treasure,  laying  it  in  a  reverent  exultation 
beside  whatever  riches  of  human  philosophy  were  offered  her, 
should  come  back  to  me  with  something  of  her  own  glad  sat- 
isfying ;  by  and  by,  long  after,  when  I  needed  it  most ;  but 
now  I  was  eager  to  prove  to  her  ;  to  make  her  acknowledge. 

"  He  brings  it  round  to  just  where  you  do  !  "  I  cried.  "  He 
says  your  very  words.  He  proves  it  out  of  materialism  it- 
self. '  What  make  you  of  }7our  Nothing  can  act  but  where  it 
is  ? '  It  is  about  Red  and  Blue,  —  Judge  and  Criminal.  See  ! 
—  '  Red  says  to  Blue,  Be  hanged  and  anatomized.  Blue  hears 
with  a  shudder,  and ,  O  wonder  of  wonders  !  marches  sorrow- 
fully to  the  gallows,  is  there  noosed  up,  and  the  surgeons  dis- 
sect him.  How  is  this,  or  what  make  you  of  your  Nothing 
can  act  but  where  it  is  ?  Red  has  no  physical  hold  of  Blue  ; 
no  clutch  of  him ;  neither  are  those  ministering  sheriffs  and 
hangmen  and  tipstaves  so  related  to  commanding  Red  that  he 
can  tug  them  hither  and  thither ;  but  each  stands  distinct 
within  his  own  skin.  Nevertheless,  as  it  is  spoken,  so  it  is 
done.  Thinking  reader,  the  reason  seems  to  me  twofold : 
First,  Man  is  a  Spirit,  and  bound  by  invisible  cords  to  all 
men.'" 

"  Why !  Why  !  "  cried  Hope,  in  a  kind  of  breathless  ful- 
ness ;  her  face  all  alive  with  something  that  was  almost  fun, 
only  that  her  eyes  glowed  so  with  her  intense  enthusiasm, 
"  what  a  while  he  was  in  coming  to  it !  The  centurion  could 
have  helped  him  long  ago  !  '  I  say  to  this  man,  Go,  and  lie 
goeth ;  and  to  another,  Come,  and  he  cometu ;  and  to  my 


A    STOUT  Of    YESTERDAYS.  265 

servant,  Do  this,  and  he  doeth  it.  Speak  the  word,  Lord, 
and  my  servant  shall  be  healed  ! '  —  They  cannot  go  outside 
what  has  been  given ;  it  holds  the  whole.  The  Lord's  life  put 
it  all  into  the  world.  The  kingdom  came;  and  the  kings  of 
the  earth  ma}-  '  bring  their  glory  and  honor  into  it ; '  but  that 
is  all  that  they  can  do.  The  same  things  come  here  and 
there  ;  that  shows  how  He  has  made  us  all  one  ;  but  they  are 
His;  He  'gave  his  flesh  — '  his  bodily  living  of  all  truth  — 
for  this  life  of  the  world  that  is  in  it  now.  He  said  the  flesh 
was  nothing ;  the  word  he  spoke  was  the  Spirit  and  the  life. 
Why  can't  they  see  how  it  was  all  in  Him  ?  They  part  his 
raiment,  while  they  crucify  him  !  "Who  else  says  live  things, 
and  then  tells  us,  Come  unto  me,  and  I  will  give  you  more,  — 
all.  I  am  the  bread  of  life  that  came  down  from  heaven  ?  " 

Hope  burned  and  quickened  as  she  went  on  ;  she  spoke  the 
thought  as  it  came  to  her  ;  it  grew  as  she  spoke  it ;  it  led  her 
whither  she  had  not  even  seen  when  she  began  ;  into  a  great, 
new  gladness.  Every  clause  was  an  outburst  of  joy. 

She  would  not  have  spoken  so  downstairs,  to  all  those 
people  ;  and  yet,  —  I  don't  know ;  —  if  it  had  come  to  her 
then,  perhaps  she  could  not  even  then  have  helped  it. 

It  seemed  to  me,  sometimes,  that  Hope  Devine  was  in- 
spired. 

After  that,  we  quieted  down,  and  went  to  bed. 

The  candle  was  out ;  Hope  lay  utterly  still ;  her  sweet 
breath  came  softly  against  my  cheek  with  such  gentle  and  reg- 
ular impulse,,  that  I  thought  she  had  already  fallen  asleep. 
When,  all  at  once,  out  of  her  repose,  she  spoke  once  more,  — 
the  issue  of  her  musing  that  had  still  gone  on,  after  our  last 
words. 

"'Nothing  can  act  but  where  it  is.'  It's  true  —  turned 
round.  Nothing  can  but  be  where  it  acts.  It's  there, 
too,  with  all  the  rest.  It's  true  when  we  dream,  and 
when  we  think,  and  —  when  we  pray.  The  angel  of  the  Lord 
came  with  his  messages.  —  We  say  '  Our  Father  who  art 
in  heaven,'  because  when  we  shut  our  eyes,  we're  there.  — 
The  Lord  could  not  love  his  disciples  without  being 
'  with  them  always.'  —  And  -that's  why  the  little  children's 


266  HITHERTO: 

angels  —  oh,  how  beautiful  it  is,  Anstiss,  and  how  much  there 
is  of  it!" 

"  You  speak  so  quick  and  so  sure,  Hope  !  And  how  it  all 
flies  together  in  your  mind,  from  Genesis  to  Revelation  !  Did 
you  ever  think  it  all  out  before  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Hope,  instantly  ;  "  not  so.  I've  just  —  noticed 
it ;  "  and  while  she  hesitated,  and  then  fixed  on  her  quaint*, 
accustomed  word,  I  knew  in  the  darkness  how  she  smiled,  and 
what  the  look  of  vision  was  upon  her  face.  "But  it's  true. 
It's  there.  I  see  it  —  clear." 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  267 


CHAPTER    XX. 

AESTHETIC    TEA. 

"  VERLOREN  !  verloren  !  "cried  Harriet  Holgate,  coming  in, 
and  subsiding  into  the  only  chair  in  the  place. 

We  were  busy  in  the  pantry,  or  china  closet,  a  small  square 
room  adjoining  the  back  parlor,  in  one  corner  of  which  a  table 
was  spread  with  exquisite  fresh  linen  and  silver  tea-things. 

Corinna  was  standing  on  a  high  stool,  reaching  down  best 
cups  and  saucers,  and  plates  of  India  porcelain  from  an  upper 
shelf;  Hope  and  I,  with  fine  glass-towels,  were  receiving  and 
dusting. 

"What's  lost?"  answered  Corinna,  impatiently.  "Your 
gloves,  or  your  heart,  or  your  wits  —  besides  your  time  ?  And 
why  don't  you  speak  English  ?  " 

"  Because  I'm  cultivating  German,  and  it's  my  duty  to  im- 
press it  on  my  mind  by  using  it  on  all  impressive  occasions. 
Don't  be  cross,  Krin  ;  at  least  till  I  say  Now  !  I  haven't  got 
through.  When  I  have,  we'll  all  be  cross  together." 

"  Are  we  to  wait  for  you  to  get  it  all  into  German  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed.  It  would  be  too  full  of  idiots.  You'd  better 
come  down,  before  I  fire." 

"  Fire  away,"  retorted  Krin,  not  a  bit  aesthetically,  or  ap- 
prehensively ;  and  drawing  a  pile  of  precious  porcelain  into 
her  hands  at  their  utmost  reach,  as  if  in  defiance. 

"  Well,  then,  the  big  man  isn't  coming.  That's  one  verlo- 
ren. And  the  other  is,  —  it's  more  than  half  of  no  use  if  he 
did.  He's  engaged  to  be  married ;  up  there  in  the  country. 
The  Growe  girls'  have  just  told  me.  Now  !  " 

Corinua  gave  me  the  plates,  cautiously,  and  then  dropped 
deliberately  and  gradually  down,  and  sat  upon  the  stooL 

"Well—  that's  nice!" 


268  HITHERTO: 

She  put  her  feet  upon  a  rung,  and  her  elbows  on  her 
knees,  and  her  chin  into  her  hands ;  and  looked  down  at  us 
with  her  cheeks  wrinkled  up  under  her  eyes. 

"  Why  can't  he  come?  The  rest  of  it's  rubbish,  you  know. 
After  to-night,  who  cares  ?  But  what  is  he  spoiling  our  tea 
for?" 

"  Don't  know.  The  Upfolds  counted  on  his  staying,  for  our 
tea,  and  for  the  class  to-morrow.  But  he's  gone ;  and  — 
what's  the  transcendental  for  an  upset  apple  cart,  or  —  fat  in 
the  fire?" 

Harriet  looked  so  pretty,  and  so  funny,  and  spoke  in  such 
sudden  small  type,  that  the  words  failed  of  their  vulgarity. 

"On  the  whole,  I  believe  I'm  rather  afraid  of  him,"  said 
Corinna,  with  resignation.  "  He'd  have  found  out  everything 
one  isn't  up  to  —  yet." 

"  On  the  whole,  the  grapes  are  sour,"   respomded  Harriet. 

"  Girls,  girls  !  What  are  you  sitting  round  douig  nothing 
for?  What's  the  matter?  Isn't  that  china  dusted  yet ?" 

"Mother!"  cried  Corinna,  "what  do  you  think?  The 
Upfolds'  friend  —  that  Mr.  Cope,  the  "  North  American 
Review"  man  —  isn't  coming.  He's  gone." 

The  last  plate,  that  I  was  just  placing  on  the  pile,  did  not 
drop,  as  things  do  in  story-books,  when  people  are  taken  by 
surprise.  On  the  contrary,  my  fingers  contracted  themselves 
so  tightly  upon  it,  that  they  might  almost  have  pinched  a 
piece  out. 

It  had  been  so  near  as  this  !     What  should  I  have  done  ? 

I  just  stood  there,  holding  the  plate. 

"  I  haven't  had  time  to  read  his  piece,"  said  Mrs.  Holgate, 
with  an  echo  of  her  daughter's  submission.  The  girls  could 
not  break  her  of  all  her  old-fashioned  words.  She  never  re- 
membered to  say  "  article." 

"But,  there  !  I  can't  let  my  cake  burn  if  he  isn't.  I  came 
for  a  straw  from  that  new  broom.  Pull  me  one  out,  Harriet. 
A  couple." 

"  Mother  doesn't  care  two  straws,"  said  Harriet,  indolently, 
handing  them  across. 

"  Straws  show  which  way  the  wind  blows.     Right  through 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  269 

the  cooking  range,  to-day.     No  draught  anywhere  else,"  said 
Corinna,  laughing. 

*'  Cake  is  cake,"  said  Mrs.  Holgate. 

"  I  don't  believe  it  is,"  said  Hope,  merrily.  "  I  guess  it's 
only  an  Idea,  suggested  by  particles  of  sugar  and  starch  — 
and  sulphur,  and  the  rest  of  the  egg  and  butter  chemicals." 

Mrs.  Holgate  took  the  straws,  and  hurried  away  with  them, 
downstairs. 

She  was  suffering  a  lamentable  relapse  into  housewifery  and 
commonplace.  All  her  pre-Carlylean  instincts  were  aroused 
in  her  by  the  demand  upon  her  purely  practical  skill,  which 
was  also  her  natural  delight.  She  and  Aunt  Tidy  were 
kitchened  together  all  the  forenoon,  over  wonderful  prepara- 
tions of  muffins  and  lemon  pound-cake.  They  only  had  two 
things,  at  these  teas,  beside  the  tea ;  but  those  two  things, 
here,  were  to  be  things  in  their  way  such  as  High  Culture  had 
never  elsewhere  put  her  lips  to. 

.The  gods  do  not  despise  ambrosia ;  only,  they  eat  it  in  a 
divine  abstraction. 

I  remember,  amid  all  the  other  remembrances  of  that 
evening,  how  fast  the  tender  muffins  ceased  to  be,  and  how 
the  melting  richness  of  the  lemon  cake  was  dissolved  away. 

I  have  no  recollection  of  how  that  plate  ever  got  out  of  my, 
hand.  I  think  Hope  must  have  taken  it.  She  always  did, 
quietly,  what  other  people  had  not  the  sense  to  do  for  them- 
selves. 

When  the  dinner  was  over,  and  the  last  touches  were  given 
to  the  rooms  below,  we  went  upstairs  to  rest  a  while,  and  then 
to  dress.  Aunt  lid}7  was  to  have  .her  usual  nap.  Hope  and 
I  took  books,  and  lay  down  on  bed  and  sofa,  in  our  room. 
Now  and  then  we  spoke,  but  did  not  sleep. 

I  was  thinking  of  those  things  downstairs.  How  much  was 
true  and  how  much  was  put  on  ? 

We  do  not  live  in  fairy-laud,  to  be  sure  ;  things  will  not  do 
themselves  ;  life  doesn't  literally  flower,  nor  being  blossom ; 
there  are  processes. 

It  takes  all  day  if  you  are  going  to  have  a  tea,  as  the  Hoi- 


270  HITHERTO: 

gates  had  it ;  somebody's  all  day  ;  your  servants',  if  you  are 
rich  enough  ;  otherwise,  your  own. 

When  the  time  comes,  then  it  all  blooms ;  then  friends  come 
graciously  and  easily  in,  upon  your  grace  and  ease,  and  your 
life  is  at  its  perfect  and  harmonious  point ;  the  aspect  stands 
for  what  alwa}rs  is  ;  the  tone  of  the  moment  for  that  which 
runs  through  the  days. 

Nobody  knows  about  the  broom-straws,  when  the  golden- 
delicate  cake  comes  round  ;  nobody  thinks  of  the  special  china 
dusting ;  nobody  asks  any  more,  if  that  page  has  been  really 
just  now  read,  at  which  Jean  Paul,  replacing  Schiller,  lies 
open  on  the  reading-stand,  pushed  carelessly  into  a  secluded 
corner.  Nobody  knows  that  the  prints  from  Michael  An- 
gelo  were  borrowed  by  Harriet  this  morning ;  that  though 
she  will  keep,  and  thoroughly  enjoy  them,  for  days  to  come,  it 
had  been  a  special  object  to  have  them  here  to-night,  and  as 
yet  they  have  been  barely  looked  at. 

Many  things  are  every-da3T  and  everywhei'e,  now,  like  silver 
forks,  that  did  not  use  to  be  ;  but  there  is  a  time,  with  all  re- 
finements, before  every-day ;  a  time  of  representatives  and 
occasions. 

The  portfolio  was  on  the  pier-table ;  the  freshest  music  was 
scattered  on  the  open  piano ;  the  new  reviews  had  had  their 
leaves  carefully  cut,  —  that  was  the  last  thing  Mrs.  Holgale 
did,  when  she  was  too  tired  to  do  anything  else,  before  she 
changed  her  morning-gown  ;  Aunt  Ildy  looking  on  with  her 
severel}7  practical  nose  ver}'  much  in  the  air.  All  had  been 
"  seen  to,"  as  sedulously  as  the  tea  furnishings  on  the  cool, 
white-draped  table,  the  fresh  flowers  in  the  vases,  and  the 
polishing  of  the  needless  fire-irons. 

It  expressed  their  tastes,  or  it  could  not  have  been  there  ; 
it  told  truly  of  the  occupations  and  the  culture  they  chose 
and  aimed  at ;  it  was  so  far  honest ;  but  it  was  just  as  much 
a  "  setting  out"  as  the  rural  dame's  whose  whole  glory  is  in 
her  bountiful  cheer,  —  her  seven  kinds  of  unapproachable 
cake,  and  four  of  miraculous  preserves. 

What  did  it  amount  to,  beyond  the  setting-out  and  the 
clearing  up? 


A    STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  271 

The  talk,  the  ideas,  would  be  just  the  same ;  a  bringing 
forth  of  best  things  for  company.  Would  the  best  things  be 
any  better,  or  more,  for  that?  Might  not  something  get  hope- 
lessly soiled,  or  shattered  even,  as  the  precious  porcelains  and 
silken  garments  do,  now  and  again? 

"What  did  anything  amount  to ;  the  honestest  and  simplest 
living ;  the  doing  of  daily  tasks  for  duty's  sake  ?  Only  a  liv- 
ing ;  making  up  one's  bed  to  tumble  again ;  cooking,  to  eat 
and  be  hungry,  and  cook  again ;  wanting,  getting,  losing ; 
beginning  over  and  over ;  do  we  really  get  on  at  all? 

"  Do  you  like  your  life,  Hope?"  I  asked,  suddenly. 

"  I'm  interested  in  it,"  said  Hope.  "  I'd  rather  finish  it  than 
begin  any  other." 

"  As  if  it  were  a  book  to  be  read !  " 

"Certain;  just  as  if ;  but  not  only;  you  asked  as  i/,  An- 
stiss." 

"  But  a  book,"  I  answered,  "you  know,  is  all  between  the 
covers  ;  something  must  come  of  it  before  you  get  through." 

"  Certain, "  she  said  again ;  "  people  couldn't  make  the 
books  so,  if  the  real  thing  wasn't ;  it  is  all  between  the  covers." 

"  Perhaps  ;  but  the  all  of  some  books  isn't  much  worth  while. 
You  wait,  and  wait,  and  expect,  and  finally  it  shuts  up  and 
hasn't  told  anything.  It's  hard  work  to  read  some  books, 
Hope." 

"  Never  mind  the  books,  then,  any  more.  I  dare  say  some 
aint  made  right ;  but  the  real  thing  is,  you  see ;  talk  about 
that.  Don't  you  often,  when  you  are  watching  and  hoping 
for  anything,  take  a  kind  of  clear  comfort  the  longer  you  wait  ? 
Because  then  it  seems  as  if  it  must  come  soon." 

"  H-m !  I  dcm't  know !  I  think  it  makes  my  throat  feel 
dusty." 

"  And  then  water  is  so  good  to  drink.  That's  like  what 
Mrs.  Whistler  used  to  say.  She  used  to  know  when  good 
things  were  coming.  Her  mouth  was  made  up  for  them  so." 

"  We  may  make  up  our  mouths  all  our  lives  long,  I  guess, 
for  some  things ;  and  go  out  of  the  world  with  them  made 
up." 

"  Certain." 


272  HITHERTO: 

"  What  do  you  keep  saying  '  certain '  for,  Hope?  "  I  asked, 
crossly.  "  That's  three  times." 

"Is  it?  Well,  it's  true,  every  time."  Hope  laughed,  with 
absolute  good-humor.  "And  nothing's  certainer  than  the 
last  one.  I  think  this  world  is,  just,  for  us  to  make  up  our 
mouths  in.  And  after  that,  comes  the  blessedness,  —  for  those 
that  have  found  out  what  to  hunger  and  thirst  for." 

It  was  a  very  pleasant  tea-drinking,  indeed. 

We  were  now  in  early  September.  The  evenings  were 
softly  cool.  Of  those  who  had  left  their  city  homes  a  while, 
for  the  fields  or  the  sea-beach,  many  had  returned.  Up  and 
down  the  street  in  which  the  Holgates  lived  were  bits  of  gar- 
dens at  the  backs  of  all  the  houses,  and  balconies  ran  along 
the*  drawing-room  stories,  upon  which  long  windows  were 
thrown  open,  and  there  people  came  out  to  sit  under  the  little 
patch  of  starlit  heaven  that  darkled  and  shone  above  from 
roof  to  roof  across  between  these  and  the  other  opposite  blocks 
whose  gardens  ran  clown  to  the  same  paved  lane. 

There  were  vines,  lifting  their  great,  green,  clustering  leaves 
and  tossing  their  light  tendrils  in  the  evening  wind  ;  there 
were  deep  horse-chestnut  trees  rearing  their  billows  of  verdure, 
and  there  was  the  smell  of  many  flowers.  A  suggestion  of  the 
country ;  an  outbreathing  of  the  same  sweet  grace  from  the 
true-hearted  earth,  unspoiled  beneath  the  crush  and  burden  of 
a  city,  that  the  wide  fields  gave  out  of  their  unsmothered  life. 

Inside,  the  rooms  were  bright ;  pouring  their  light  out 
through  muslin  draperies  into  the  vines  and  tree-tops. 
Thei'e  was  the  fragrance  of  delicious  tea,  that  somehow  is  es- 
pecially fragrant  in  summer  warmth,  and  coming  forth  in  little 
whiffs  upon  sweet  outer  ,air. 

People  took  this  little  evening  comfort  in  the  city  then  ;  and 
there  was  a  gentle,  social  feeling  of  the  rest  and  refreshing  at 
the  day's  end,  and  everybody's  bits  of  green  and  blossom 
helped  everybody's  else,  and  the  bright,  open  windows  were 
like  pleasant  watchfires  telegraphing  back  and  forth  from 
household  to  household.  Now,  from  May  to  November  there 
are  long  ranges  of  closed  shutters  and  cobwebbed  railings  ;  the 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  273 

gardens  are  only  disused  clothes-j^ards,  and  strange  cats  walk 
about  the  balconies  in  the  darkness. 

I  liked  this  glimpse  of  city  life  with  its  country  flavor. 
There  was  something  delicate  in  it  that  you  get  in  anything 
homoeopathically  taken,  which,  quaffed  freely,  loses  some  mys- 
terious power  or  charm.  It  was  like  a  sip  of  rare  wine. 

Hope  and  I  sat  outride  ;  the  Miss  Growes  came,  too,  and  a 
young  Mr.  Upfold  who  accompanied  his  sisters  to  these  gath- 
erings, taking  the  sociality  without  the  metaphysics. 

"They  always  did  like  the  crust  of  the  biscuit  best,  and  I 
couldn't  bear  it ;  so  they  gave  me  all  the  soft,"  said  he.  "  It's 
my  perquisite." 

He  made  us  very  comfortable  with  a  tea-poy,  and  went  to 
and  fro,  bringing  fresh-filled  cups,  sugar,  cream,  and  cakes. 

"  How  still  it  is  !  "  said  Hope  ;  "  almost  like  Broadfields  ;  and 
yet,  what  houses  and  houses  full  of  people,  crowded  together  ! ' 
I  think  it  is  a  strange  feeling  to  live  in  a  great  city.     All 
walls,  and  walls  ;  built  to  shut  up  lives.     Nobody  knows  what 
is  close  by.     It  makes  me  think  —  "    Hope  stopped. 

"Well,  Miss  Devine,  of  what  does  it  make  you  think?" 
asked  young  Upfold.  He  had  just  brought  her  the  sugar-bowl, 
and  Hope  had  forgotten  she  wanted  it. 

"  Are  you  going  to  have  thoughts,  too?  It  is  a  terrible  way 
people  have  got  into  lately  ;  it  reminds  me,  sometimes,  of  my 
little  niece  asking  about  her  soul.  She  had  a  notion  it  was  a 
kind  of  an  oval-shaped  thing,  lying  across  inside  her  bosom  ; 
and  she  wondered  what  it  would  walk  about  on  when  it  got  to 
heaven.  I  think  we  are  all  getting  to  be  pure  ideas,  and  the 
wonder  is  what  we  shall  walk  about  on  ;  or  if  we  do,  how  we 
shall  look?  That  was  what  puzzled  Rosie  ;  she  thought  legs 
would  be  so  funny.  But  I  should  really  like  to  know  what 
you.  thought  of;  you  look  as  if  it  were  something  that 
came  ;  not  a  bullet  that  you  had  run  carefully  beforehand,  and 
were  waiting  for  a  chance  to  fire  off.  They  alj.  carry  such  lots 
of  ammunition,  Miss  Hope  !  " 

"  I  don't,"  said  Hope,  laughing.  "  Not  a  single  cartridge. 
And  I  shouldn't  know  how  to  load  and  fire,  if  I  did." 

"  '  It  made  you  think,'  —  I  do  hope  you'll  tell  me  !  " 
18 


274 

I  dare  say  Mr.  Upfold  fancied  he  had  struck  a  vein  tli.it 
would  last  awhile  ;  that  he  was  fairly  started  on  a  half-hour's 
bantering  small-talk,  such  as  most  girls  would  have  been 
ready  for,  and  made  much  of;  a  beseeching  and  withholding 
of  something  just  enough,  or  little  enough,  worth  while  to 
serve  the  pretence  ;  as  children  play  "  button,  button." 

I  think  he  was  very  much  surprised  *when  Hope  lifted  up 
her  golden-brown  eyes  upon  him,  the  smile  subduing  softly  on 
her  face,  and  said  simply  :  — 

"  It  made  me  think  —  of  the  many  mansions." 
"  I  believe  it  did,"  he  answered  at  once,  quietly,  and  with  a 
deference  ;  paying  tribute,  in  words  as  simple  as  her  own,  to 
her  reality.     "  Will  you  tell  me  how?" 

"  So  near,"  she  said  ;  "  and  yet  we  know  so  little.     But  it  is 
a  comfort  they  are  there ;  and  we  can  see  the  light." 
"Do  j'ou  always  think  such  things  as  that?" 
"  I  think  a  great  many  little  beginnings.     So  does  every- 
body, I  suppose.     Everything  is  like  something  else,  and  puts 
us  in  mind,  you  know." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  ought  to  think  of  your  cup  of  tea,  just 
now ;  or  will  you  let  me  get  a  hot  one?  And  you  haven't  had 
a  bit  of  cake,  —  have  you  ?  " 

He  spoke  as  if  he  would  like  to  do  a  little  service  for  her. 
Perhaps  something  so  like  angelhood  gleamed  out  upon  him, 
that  he  would  like  to  bring  her  food  and  drink,  and  prove  her 
mortal. 

"  Oh,  no,  indeed  !  "  said  Hope.  "  I  mean  —  the  tea  —  it  is 
quite  nice.  But  I  would  like  a  little  more  cake,  presently,  if 
you  please." 

I  wondered  at  Hope's  charming  little  easy  way.  She  had 
never  been  in  a  company  like  this  ;  yet  she  was  so  at  home ! 
But  I  need  not  have  wondered.  She  was  too  simple  to  be 
anything  but  easy.  "Such  drawing-room"  was  "  simply  a 
section  of  infinite  space,"  after  all ;  and  in  no  essential  way 
different  to  her  from  Mrs.  Hathaway's  best  parlor,  or  the  fern- 
pastures  about  Red  Hill. 

After  we  had  done  drinking  tea  and  eating  cakes,  we  stood 
about,  and  just  within,  the  windows,  looking  at  the  company, 


A    STORY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  275 

and  catching,  from  the  nearer  groups,  the  tone  of  conversa- 
tion. The  Miss  Growes  went  to  the  table  to  look  at  the 
prints.  Harriet  was  turning  them  over,  and  talking  rather 
learnedly  about  them. 

Mr.  Upfold  asked  us  if  we  would  like  to  see. 

"  I  don't  know  airvthing  at  all  about  them,"  answered 
'Hope;  "and  I  don't  believe  I  should  find  out  enough  to 
enjoy  them,  looking  at  them  in  this  way.  I  should  like  to 
have  them  all  by  m}*self,  or  with  somebody  who  could  explain 
them.  I  shall  try  and  ask  Miss  Harriet  to-morrow ;  for  I 
should  like  to  understand." 

"  I  wonder  if  there  is  another  girl  in  this  room,  that  would 
give  an  honest  answer  like  that !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Upfold. 

"  Oh,  they  all  know ;  or  have  had  some  chance  to  know," 
said  Hope.  "  I  never  saw  anything  of  the  kind  before  ;  and 
I  haven't  read  about  Michael  *Angelo.  But  I  mean  to,  now. 
Everything  doesn't  come  all  at  once,  to  anybody." 

It  was  funny  to  watch  young  Upfold's  face.  Every  time 
Hope  opened  her  lips,  she  said  something  which  called  out 
that  mingled  expression,  through  slightly  lifted  brows,  mouth 
playing  with  half-checked  smiles,  and  bright,  quick  flashes 
from  the  eyes,  which  told  of  surprise,  amused  appreciation  of 
her  exquisite  freshness,  and  an  unfeigned  pleasure  and 
admiration. 

Once  he  turned  round  to  me. 

"  I  wish  I  could  get  her  out  there  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
among  them  all,  and  make  her  talk,"  said  he.  "  It  would 
startle  them  like  a  little  sun-shower." 

"It  would  be  like  the  little  child  set  in  the  midst,"  said  I. 

"Tell  me  honestly.  Don't  you  think  they  pretend 
awfully?" 

"  Your  sisters  !     Our  hostesses  !     All  their  friends  ! " 

"  Welt,  you  can't  say,  to  be  sure.  But  I  should  like  to  get 
at  what  she  makes  out  of  it.  —  Miss  D.evine  !  what  do  you 
think  of  all  this  fine  talk  ?  Do  you  believe  the}r've  got  so  far 
as  to  '  think  French '  ?  Do  you  suppose  they  breathe  tran- 
scendentally ?  Or  is  it  all  practice  and  best  gowns?" 

Hope  glanced  about  upon  the  groups,  with  not  a  bit  either 


276  HITHERTO: 

of  presumptuous  judgment  or  sarcasm,  any  more  than  of  timid 
over-impression,  in  her  manner. 

"I  suppose  it  is  all  real,"  she  said;  "or  they  would  not 
take  the  trouble.  But  —  I  don't  know  —  it  seems,  —  doesn't 
it  —  a  little  bit  —  as  if  they  were  looking  in  the  glass  all  the 
time  ?  Like  trying  on  things,  —  some  of  it  ?  " 

Mr.  Upfold's  laugh  broke  suddenly  upon  the  low,  uniform 
key  of  conversation  around  the  room,  and  heads  were  turned 
toward  us. 

He  wheeled  slightly  and  easily,  giving  his  back  to  the  com- 
pany, and  his  merry  face  to  us. 

"  Capital ! "  said  he,  with  a  subdued  emphasis.  "  New 
phraseology,  —  a  too  '  objective  subjectivity.'  I  haven't  got 
to  thinking  in  it  yet,  Miss  Devine  ;  rnais  je  le  parle  assez  pour 
ne  me  faire  comprendre." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Upfold,"  replied  Hope,  demurely. 
"  Which  is  the  French?" 

He  laughed  out  again. 

"  Don't,  Miss  Hope ! "  he  cried.  "  They'll  find  you  out 
and  get  you  away.  The  forty  she-bears  will  come  out  of  the 
wood  and  carry  off  the  two  naughty  children.  I  want  to  be 
naughty  and  happy  a  little  while  longer." 

—  "  After  all,  Mrs.  Holgate!  I  and  my  lion!  Quite  tame 
and  amenable ! " 

"  Amenable  to  good  fortune,  Mrs.  Holgate.  I  was  detained 
in  town  this  morning,  and  this  afternoon  a  letter  came,  which 
did  away  with  the  necessity  for  my  leaving,  and  in  fact, 
obliged  me  to  remain.  My  friend,  whom  it  was  needful  for 
me  to  see,  will  himself  be  in  the  city  to-morrow." 

These  last  sentences,  in  two  voices,  came  to  me  distinctly 
across  what  Hope  and  Mr.  Upfold  were  saying  at  the  same 
moment.  They  were  spoken  beyond  the  folding-doors,  at  the 
entrance  to  the  further  parlor,  near  which  Mrs.  Holgate  stood. 

Grandon  Cope  and  the  eldest  Miss  Upfold  had  just  come  in 
together. 

There  was  a  buzz  in  my  head  then,  for  a  second,  and  the 
room  and  all  I  saw  in  it  gave  a  queer  little  jerk  across  my 
eyes,  and  while  it  cleared  and  straightened  again  as  instantly, 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  277 

I  saw  that  Mr.  Cope  had  gone  across  the  front  parlor,  right  up 
to  Aunt  Ildy.  She,  with  a  very  great  amazement  in  her  face, 
was  making,  as  to  the  rest  of  her,  a  deliberate,  complete,  old- 
fashioned,  New  Oxford  courtesy. 

The  groups  broke  up,  with  the  interruption  and  the  fresh 
attraction.  People  waited  to  be  introduced.  Mrs.  Holgate 
fidgeted  a  little  at  his  occupation  with  Aunt  Ildy.  He 
seemed,  indeed,  in  no  manner  of  hurry  ;  but  went  on  asking, 
apparently,  a  great  many  little  questions,  which  Miss  Chism 
replied  to  with  her  properest  manner,  somewhat  stiff  and 
unused,  her  chin  drawn  back  with  a  decorous  dignity  ;  smooth- 
ing carefully,  as  she  spoke,  the  fingers  of  her  right  glove  with 
those  of  her  left  hand,  in  which  she  held,  exactly  by  the  mid- 
dle, her  best  pocket-handkerchief.  She  never  looked  at  me. 

Presently,  Corinna  Holgate  came  and  took  Mr.  Upfold 
away.  Another  gentleman  —  old  Mr.  Growe — joined  them 
as  they  paused  by  a  table  in  the  front  room  near  where  Aunt 
Ildy  stood,  on  which  was  a  tall,  slender-stemmed  vase  of  clear 
glass,  holding  a  single  lily-like  blossom  of  some  rare  plant. 
They  stood,  admiring  the  flower  for  a  minute,  and  then  Co- 
rinna dexterously  turned  and  introduced  both  her  companions 
to  Miss  Chism. 

It  made  Aunt  Ildy  quite  pre-eminent  for  the  time  being. 
Mr.  Cope  did  not  immediately  come  away ;  and  she  stood 
surrounded,  like  any  young,  brilliant  woman,  with  the  best 
masculine  attention  of  the  room.  It  had  its  effect,  as  a  single 
such  moment  will  have  with  a  woman  who  only  gets  a  moment 
of  it,  let  her  age  be  what  it  way.  I  detected  the  pleased 
"  objective "  in  her ;  in  her  sober,  old-fashioned  properness, 
with  a  decided  access  of  best  behavior,  she  was  trying  it  on. 

She  alluded  to  it  afterward.  It  was  the  point  for  her 
approval,  in  an  evening  in  which  she  had  found  much  to 
despraise. 

"  It  was  very  pretty  and  attentive  of  Corinna ;  and  Mr. 
Cope  was  particularly  polite.  You  can  always  tell  a  gentle- 
man by  his  manners  to  elderly  ladies." 

From  Aunt  Ildy,  he  came  at  once  to  me.  She  had  been 
obliged,  I  know,  to  reply  in  the  affirmative  to  his  inquiry  if  I 


278  HITHERTO  : 

were  with  her,  though  she  carefully  refrained  from  any  glance 
in  my  direction  ;  much  us  children  do,  when  they  are  playing 
at  "  hide  a  thing,"  and  are  telling  "  how  high  water." 

There  was  only  time  for  a  mere  greeting ;  only  time  for  the 
room  to  give  that  odd  jerk  again  before  my  vision  as  he  ap- 
proached, and  then  for  me  to  answer  properly  and  quietly  his 
salutation,  and  to  put  my  hand  in  his  for  an  instant  as  he  of- 
fered it ;  for  him  to  say  he  had  had  no  idea  that  it  was  here 
we  were  staying,  —  that  it  was  a  great  surprise  to  meet  us  ;  to 
tell  him  "  Yes,  — I  liked  Boston  very  much  indeed  ;  "  that  "  it 
was  not  quite  certain  yet  how  soon  we  should  return  to  New 
Oxford  ; "  to  ask,  rather  suddenly,  "  if  Miss  Hare  were  well,  and 
the  family  at  South  Side  ; "  and  then  they  came  and  got  him 
away. 

They  divided  him  round ;  introducing  him  to  one  and  an- 
other ;  everj^body  expected  something  wonderful  from  him ; 
and  almost  everybody,  I  suppose,  was  ready  with  something 
as  nearly  wonderful  as  possible  to  say  to  him. 

But  the  wonderful  thing  he  did  was  to  stick  loyally  to 
commonplace  ;  he  seemed  determined  not  to  be  deep  or  grand  ; 
he  broke  up  all  congested  talk ;  he  stirred  the  company  to 
simple,  genial  circulation. 

He  told  funny  things ;  he  talked  railroads  with  old  Mr. 
Growe,  and  just  when  that  was  getting  to  be  long  and  mo- 
nopolizing, he  broke  it  off,  and  made  him  laugh  most  untrans- 
cendentally  and  unspeculatively,  at  a  story  of  a  countryman, 
unweaned  from  stage-travelling,  beside  whom  he  had  been 
seated  in  the  train,  coming  down,  and  who,  after  many  extra- 
ordinary private  inquiries  of  himself,  had  lifted  up  his  voice 
suddenly,  and  hailed  the  conductor  at  the  farther  end  of  the 
car  with,  "  I  say,  driver !  look  here  !  where  does  this  —  team 
—  dine?" 

"  There  is  nobody,"  remarked  Grandon  Cope,  "  more  in- 
tensely green  than  a  Yankee,  when  things  are  new  ;  precisely 
because  his  faculties  all  waken  so  alertly  to  a  surprise ;  there- 
fore, also,  he  accustoms  himself  with  a  corresponding  quick- 
ness to  the  new  conditions ;  they  are  old  to  him,  when  the 
first  jerk  is  over  ;  next  week  that  man  will  be  putting  to  prac- 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  279 

tical  advantage  the  facility  he  has  just  fairly  realized  ;  next 
year  he  will  be  planting  crops  and  raising  stock  with  refer- 
ence to  the  railroad  market ;  and  in  five  years  Jie  will  be  one 
of  a  corporation,  perhaps,  petitioning  for  new  charters,  and 
buying  lands  along  the  routes.  Nothing  throws  the  Yankee 
really  off  his  balance.  If  the  earth's  axis  were  to  shift  sud- 
denly, he  would  suffer  the  convulsion  with  a  certain  cat-like, 
wide-awake-and-watchfuf  spread  of  every  astonished  capacity, 
all  abroad  for  the  transition  interval,  but  coming  down  on  his 
feet,  and  '  located '  in  the  best  prospective  latitude  before  the 
earthquakes  were  well  over." 

Presently  after,  getting  away  from  Mr.  Growe,  and  leav- 
ing the  laugh  yet  broad  upon  his  face,  he  was  noticing  with 
admiration  a  bouquet  of  brilliant  flowers,  in  which  the  vivid 
coloring  of  autumn  was  mingled  with  the  lingering  delicate- 
ness  of  summer  hues,  and  asking  Harriet  Holgate  if  she  hud 
ever  seen  a  piano  kaleidoscope.  Then  all  the  carefully  scattered 
music  was  hastily  slid  together,  and  dropped  into  the  canter- 
bury ;  the  lid  was  raised,  the  lamp  placed,  and  he  showed  us 
the  effect,  —  wreaths,  crowns,  stars,  masses,  shifting  and 
glowing  in  marvellous  reflection,  from  the  vase  of  bright  blos- 
soms, as  he  held  it,  and  moved  it  slightly  and  gently  in  the 
full  intensity  of  the  light. 

It  was  while  they  were  still  busy  with  this,  that,  resigning 
the  flowers  to  Mr.  Upfold,  he  went  first  to  the  other  end  of  the 
instrument  and  took  his  own  turn  of  observation,  and  then 
moved  quietly  round  and  came  over  again  to  Hope  and  me. 

"  Have  you  got  all  yom-  questions  answered,  Miss  Au- 
stiss?  "  he  asked.  "  Have  they  solved  everything?" 

"  Here !  " 

"Why,  isn't  this  the  place?  I  thought  Boston  was  the 
Key,  at  the  end  of  the  book  of  the  generations,  where  all  the 
riddles  were  unravelled." 

"Into  new  conundrums?" 

I  answered  him  in  his  own  way  ;  but  why  did  he  take  that 
way  with  me? 

Did  he  not  know  ?  Had  not  Augusta  told  him  ?  Was  there 
not  a  displeasure  in  his  heart  as  there  was  a  self-reproach  in 


280  HITHERTO  : 

mine?  What  was  the  use  of  talking  outside  the  truth  that 
was  between  us  ?  "Why  did  he  not  rather  keep  away  ? 

While  I  stood  before  him,  with  my  face  down,  knowing  his 
bent  upon  me,  thinking  these  things,  —  showing  them,  per- 
haps,—  liis  face  changed  ;  I  saw  it  when  I  lifted  up  my  eyes 
again  at  his  next  words,  that  were  different  also. 

"  Yes.     You  will  find  out  that." 

"  That  it  is  all  puzzle,  and  that  there  is  no  way  out?  " 

"No.  But  that  theory  and  introspection  will  not  help  you 
out.  It  is  only  living  that  unravels." 

"Hope  would  say,  —  the  door  isn't  through  the  looking- 
glass." 

"  Hope  would  say  quite  true,"  he  answered,  with  a  smile, 
and  a  quick  glance  at  her  that  had  a  question  in  it.  "  You 
would  only  shatter  your  ideal,  and  wound  yourself.  But  how 
came  you,  Miss  Hope,  to  say  that,  and  what  —  if  you  please 
—  is  the  rest  of  it  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Upfold  said  it  was  objective  subjectivity,"  said  Hope, 
mischievously. 

"  Hope  thought,"  said  I,  "  that  people  were  trying  on  their 
ideas." 

"  Precisely,"  said  Grandon  Cope.  "  They  mean  nothing 
false  ;  they  are  eager  after  the  true  —  the  beautiful ;  but  they 
think  they  can  lay  hold  of  it  abstractly  ;  they  forget  that  it 
must  grow  out  of  them,  —  that  it  cannot  be  gathered,  or  bor- 
rowed, or  put  on ;  they  forget  the  lilies  of  the  field,  and  how 
they  only  grow,  and  God  takes  care  of  the  glory." 

"The  older  the  world  gets,"  he  continued,  "I  think  the 
more  it  does  try  on ;  and  the  less  real,  simple,  first-hand  liv- 
ing there  comes  to  be.  There  is  too  long  a  story  behind. 
Almost  everything  seems  to  have  been  done.  Somebody 
thinks  a  great  thought ;  it  comes  through  years  and  distances, 
or  out  of  a  different  life,  to  other  somebodies  ;  and  they,  see- 
ing it  is  something,  fancy  they  can  straightway  jump  into  just 
such  thinking,  and  how  fine  that  will  be  !  Or,  out  of  peculiar 
condition  and  character,  time  and  temperament,  grows  some 
peculiar  social  brilliancy ;  and  at  once  you  see,  as  soon  as 
they  hear  of  it,  bright  Yankee  women  flinging  up  their  own 


A    STORf    OF    YESTERDAYS.  281 

later  speciality  and  opportunit}T,  which  the  world  has  come  to 
and  waits  for,  and  turning  themselves  into  Madame  Reca- 
miers,  and  their  home-y  back  parlors  into  French  salons.  We 
are  in  danger  of  tiding  on  our  very  patriotism.  We  are  so 
full  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence  and  the  battle  of 
Bunker  Hill,  that  if  some  new  national  emergency  were  to 
arise,  I  think  the  first  effect  would  have  more  or  less  of  the 
looking-glass  about  it.  If  the  occasion  were  real,  the  real 
thing  would  come,  and  it  would  be  at  the  bottom  all  the  while  ; 
but  the  first  popular  apprehension  would  be  a  good  deal  of  the 
new,  grand  attitude,  —  the  magnificence  of  being  forefathers; 
and  o\\v  first  battle  might  not  be  a  Bunker  Hill." 

"  Living  is  as  great  a  puzzle  as  thinking,"  said  I,  going  back 
to  his  first  word,  which  weighed  with  me.  "  And  gets  as 
easily  snarled  up.  And  one  snarl  drives  you  back  into  the 
other." 

"  You  mustn't  try  to  see  thi'ough  the  whole*  skein,  or  to 
straighten  it  all  out  into  a  single  thread  before  you  begin  to 
wind  ;  that  makes  a  snarl,  always.  There  is  alwa}7s  an  end, 
and  that  is  what  you  have  got  to  take  hold  of.  If  we  each  did 
that,  and  followed  it  simply,  we  should  by  and  by  see  round, 
perfect  lives,  ready  for  God's  tapestry  of  the  future,  instead 
of  a-11  the  world's  yarn  thrown  confusedly  into  a  heap,  and 
everybody  tossing  and  twitching  at  it,  —  pulling  it  into  hard 
knots  in  the  attempt  at  brilliant,  comprehensive  ingenuities, 
or  \)y  way  of  showing  how  much  farther  one  could  see  into 
the  tangle  than  another." 

"But  if  one  gets  hold  of  the  wrong  end  at  the  first?" 
"  Still   it   would  unwind   with   patience.     There  would  be 
loops  to  go  through,  and  twists  to  reverse,  and  it  might  not  be 
eas}-  or  pleasant.     But  there  always  comes  some  smooth  run- 
ning to  every  skein,  before  all  is  done." 

"  Would  3Tou  give  up  the  ideal,  and  the  thinkers,  then?  " 
"  No.  Not  any  more  than  I  would  give  up  the  astrono- 
mers, and  the  grand  glimpses  of  the  Cosmos.  But  they  must 
not  be  in  a  hurry  ;  they  must  remember  that  they  are  only 
small  observers  ;  that  it  is  the  living  thqt  unravels.  They 
can't  stand  at  any  one  point  in  time  or  in  development,  and 


282  HITHERTO: 

think  out  the  whole  eternal  fact  and  drift  of  being,  any  more 
than  from  a  single-  attitude  in  time  and  space  of  the  great 
heaven,  we  can  read  all  the  tremendous  rcrysteries  of  its 
circles  and  motions.  It  has  got  to  be  lived  out,  in  God's 
leisure  and  man's  obedience,  as  the  story  of  the  aeons  is  told, 
little  by  little,  in  the  slow  shifting  of  the  stars." 

"  Are  you  having  it  all  to  yourselves  in  this  corner?" 

Mrs.  Holgate  fidgeted  up  to  us,  catching  some  of  the  last 
words, —  "aeons,"  I  think,  startled  her  especially,  —  and 
seeing  Grandon  Cope's  face  alight  with  eloquence,  and  Hope's 
with  listening. 

"What  are  you  three  about?  What  is  Mr.  Cope  saying? 
I  am  afraid  the  rest  of  us  are  losing  a  great  deal." 

Mr.  Cope  was  like  the  tea  and  muffins  ;  he  was  to  be  handed 
round  ;  the  family  should  have  been  helped  last ;  Hope  and  I, 
as  partly  at  home,  should  not  have  taken  so  much  of  the  best 
things  to  ourselves. 

"  Don't  take  me  away,"  said  Grandon  Cope,  changing  his 
manner  humorously.  "  I  couldn't  do  it  again ;  indeed,  I 
didn't  mean  to  do  it  at  all." 

A  hostess  should  never  make  ineffectual  movements  among 
her  guests ;  there  come  awkward  moments,  so,  as  to  an  in- 
expert actor,  "  de  trop  "  upon  the  stage,  and  with  no  resource 
of  by-play. 

Mrs.  Holgate  stood  irresolute  for  an  instant,  and  then 
moved  on  to  ask  Miss  Upfold  to  sing. 

During  the  stir  of  finding  music,  and  restoring  the  piano  to 
order,  Grandon  Cope  fell  back  upon  my  other  side,  away 
from  Hope,  and  while  the  prelude  was  playing,  he  spoke  to  me 
again,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Don't  go  through  false  loops,  by  any  means  ;  nor  yet,  be 
in  a  hurry  to  break  j-our  thread  and  make  new  ends.  Be  true, 
and  you  will  be  sure  ;  and  you  will  neither  tangle  your  own 
skein  nor  any  other.  Are  you  going  home  soon?  " 

"  I  suppose  so  ;  before  very  long  ;  I  think  we  must,"  I  an- 
swered, in  a  hurried,  difficult  voice.  I  felt  the  quick,  con- 
scious flush  leap  up  into  my  face,  and  burn  there  as  if  it  never 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  283 

meant  to  go  away ;  and  there  was  a  pulse  in  my  throat  that 
choked  and  pained  me. 

They  had  talked  it  all  over,  then  ;  and  I  had  gained  nothing 
by  coming  away  ;  it  was  all  waiting  for  me. 

"  Augusta  wants  jrou  ;  she  has  plans  to  tell  you  of,  in  which 
you  are  included." 

I  don't  know  what  he  thought  of  me ;  of  course  I  under-* 
stood  ;  it  was  the  wedding  that  was  to  be  soon,  —  perhaps  at 
once  ;  and  I  had  not  a  word  of  friendship  or  congratulation  ; 
not  even  a  smile  ready  for  such  news ;  my  blushes  were  all 
used  up  upon  myself;  I  was  only  full  of  distress  and  per- 
plexity ;  I  was  almost  angry  with  worry. 

The  singing  began,  and  we  could  not  talk  any  more. 

Afterward,  when  the  company  broke  up,  and  he  was  taking 
leave,  he  came  to  me  and  said  good-night,  very  kindly.  He 
meant  that  I  should  not  be  frightened,  or  troubled  ;  it  was  the 
purpose  of  his  whole  manner.  I  saw  it,  and  it  troubled  me 
the  more.  Yet  I  was  glad  that  he  did  come  and  say  good-night. 

The  next  morning,  at  breakfast,  they  talked  over  the  party, 
as  to  whether  it  had  been  a  success.  Evidently,  they  were 
not  quite  satisfied. 

"I  was  disappointed  in  Mr,  Cope,"  said  Mrs.  Holgate. 
"  He  seemed  to  break  everything  up.  He  wouldn't  really  talk 
at  all." 

"  He  wouldn't  be  shown  off,  that's  all,"  said  Corinna.  "  If 
Mary  Upfold  hadn't  said  '  I  and  my  lion,'  I  believe  he  would 
have  behaved  better." 

"  It  turned  into  just  a  common  sort  of  good  time,  at  last," 
said  Harriet.  "  But  I  don't  know  that  I  didn't  rather  like 
it." 

"  Why,  my  gracious  ! "  said  Aunt  Ildy.  "What  else  would 
you  have  ?  What  are  parties  for  ?  " 

"  I  think  social  intercourse,  among  cultivated  people,  ought 
to  be  something  better.  Something  more,  at  any  rate,"  re- 
plied Corinna. 

"And  suppose  they  aint  all  so  terribly  cultivated?" 

"We  have  aright  to  expect  it,"  said  Corimm,  magnifi- 
cently. "  If  one  takes  the  trouble  with  one's  self,  one  has  a 


284  HITHERTO  : 

right  to  demand  the  like  culture  in  others.     Otherwise,  they 
are  hardly  worth  while  in  any  way." 

"  Highty-tighty ! "  exclaimed  Aunt  Ikty,  pushing  back 
her  chair.  "  It's  the  same  old  Satan,  after  all !  " 

They  were  very  good-humored,  and  they  laughed  at  this. 

"  I'll  tell  you  one  thing,"  resumed  Aunt  Ildy,  not  unstimu- 
lated  with  her  own  success.  "  I  think  you  make  a  great  deal 
too  free  with  solemn  things.  You  talk  about  souls  as  if  they 
were  beans ;  and  you  bring-  the  Lord's  name  in  as  pat  and 
common  as  the  day  of  the  week ;  and  you  undertake  to  tell 
what  is  grand  and  good  and  everlasting,  as  if  you  had  just 
come  down  from  Mount  Sinai ;  when,  all  the  time,  you  are  just 
piling  up  your  own  human  conceits,  as  the  children  of  Israel 
did  their  ornaments,  to  make  a  golden  calf  of.  There  !  " 

"But — Miss  Chism !  Shouldn't  we  share  our  life,  and 
help  each  other  with  our  best  ?  Would  you  shut  out  religion 
from  common  talk,  and  only  save  it  up  for  prayer-meetings 
and  Sundays  ?  Can't  you  say  '  God,'  except  when  the  church- 
bells  ring  ?  Isn't  everything  religion  ?  Isn't  poetry  truth,  and 
art  worship  ?  " 

"  Don't  talk  lingo  to  rne.  I  believe  in  the  Bible,  and  going 
to  meeting.  And  that  people's  souls  are  something  live  and 
awful,  that  they've  got  to  save.  I  don't  believe  you'll  save 
'em  this  wa}r !  —  What  are  you  thinking  of,  Hope  Devine  ?  " 

Hope's  face  was  earnest ;  her  eyes  intense ;  she  listened 
with  an  anxiety  ;  her  brows  dropped  gently,  as  with  some  im- 
mediate awe  that  the  others  knew  not  of. 

"  I  was  thinking,"  she  said,  "  that  perhaps  we  shouldn't 
any  of  us  dare  to  say  so  much  about  these  things,  if  we  re- 
membered that  we  couldn't  talk  behind  God's  back  ! " 

"  I  shall  go,  girls,  the  first  of  the  week,"  Aunt  Ildy  said 
to  us,  that  afternoon,  upstairs.  "  I'm  getting  tired.  Jane 
Holgate  is  a  good  soul ;  but  she's  a  hypocrite.  What  she 
realry  cared  for  was  the  muffins,  and  that  splendid  cake. 
Why  can't  she  be  contented  to  take  comfort  in  'em,  in  the 
plain  old  way  ?  And  why  can't  folks  eat  'em  and  praise  'em, 
and  ask  for  receipts  ?  It  was  better  than  this  !  " 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  285 

On  Monday  we  had  letters,  from  Uncle  Royle  and  Lucretia. 
Everything  was  going  on  well.     Lucretia  had  preserved  the' 
peaches,  and  there  was  "  nothing  particular  to  do   now,  till 
the  cider  apple-sauce,  and  the  barberries,  and  the  pig-killing." 

Aunt  Ildy  was  a  little  mysterious  for  a  day  or  two,  and  be- 
haved as  if  she  suspected  us  of  trying  continually  to  find  her 
out,  and  of  supposing  that  'it  was  likely  to  be  very  much 
worth  our  while  if  we  could. 

Then,  all  at  once,  while  we  were  beginning  to  pack  up.,  she 
pinched  it  out  to  us,  like  a  dole  of  something  that  it  was 
rather  extravagant  to  let  us  have  at  all,  and  that* we  mustn't 
ever  expect  any  more  of. 

"  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  go  down  to'Duxbury,  and  see 
Whitcher  Chism's  folks.  They  wouldn't  like  it,  if  I  came  to 
Boston  and  didn't.  And  they  think  a  sight  of  their  Duxbury 
clams." 

"Did  you  ever  see  the  sea,  Hope?"  I  asked,  breathlessly 
eager,  as  soon  as  we  were  alone. 

"Only  once,"  said  Hope.  "A  great  many  years  ago. 
And  that  was  where  it  came  into  the  dock." 

So  we  two  girls  went  away  with  Aunt  Ildy  to  see  the  sea. 
How  good  she  was  to  me  !  I  was  just  beginning  to  find  her 
out. 

She  did  her  best  by  me.  Years  ago,  she  knew  it  was  good 
for  me  to  be  kept  strict,  and  to  learn  to  darn  stockings. 
Now,  with  a  more  kindly  and  delicate  perception,  she  Jcnew 
that  the  great  sea,  which  I  had  never  seen,  would  be  good  for 
me.  Better  than  to  go  back,  now,  to  New  Oxford  and  South 
Side. 

The  great  trouble  with  Aunt  Ildy,  in  her  management  of 
my  childhood,  had  been  her  belief  in  human  depravity.  To 
do  her  justice,  the  nearer  the  human  nature  was  to  herself, 
the  more  fearful  she  was  for  its  salvation.  She  was  hard, 
watchful,  irritating  ;  always  picking  after  the  sliver  of  original 
sin. 

"  I  told  you  so,"  said  Hope.  "  I  told  you  how  good  she 
would  be." 


286  HITHERTO : 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE    SILENT    SIDE. 
WINTER   CHICKENS. 

RICHARD  HATHAWAY  came  up,  bareheaded,  through  the 
field-path  from  the  cider-mill.  He  carried  his  hat  carefully  in 
his  hand.  He  went  in  at  the  lower  end  of  the  long  range  of 
shed-building  that,  trim,  neat,  and  comfortable,  its  open 
arches  crammed  with  good  oak  and  chestnut  sticks,  showing 
their  ends  in  a  close,  even  wall,  helped  to  give  the  well-pro- 
vided look  that  all  these  outer  surroundings  do  give  to  a 
prosperous  New  England  farm-house.  "  Solid  comfort  "  —  a 
New  England  phrase  —  was  well  expressed  and  foretokened 
by  its  abundant  store. 

At  this  lower  end,  where  Richard  entered,  was  the  tool-room, 
floored  and  windowed ;  a  long  ladder  was  set  up  against  the 
firm-built  woodpile  on  that  side  where  its  extremity,  held  in 
by  a  few  upright  joists,  formed  the  fourth  wall,  and  shut  it  in 
warm  from  the  open  shed  through  all  the  winter,  until  the 
gradual  demolition  of  the  great  fuel-heap  broke  into  it  late  in 
the  spring,  and  let  in  free  and  pleasant  airs. 

Richard  went  up  the  ladder,  hat  in  hand.  The  deep  gar- 
gling cluck  of  a  brooding  hen  greeted  him  from  the  dark  angle 
of  the  roof,  in  the  small  space  left  by  the  compact  logs. 

"  Well,  old  biddy !  So  you're  determined?  What  do  you 
want  with  winter  chickens,  I  wonder,  old  biddy?  What  would 
you  have  done  without  a  little  help,  old  biddy?  How  could 
you  have  get  along  without  the  hay  ?  There,  —  there's  an 
egg,  biddy  !  And  there's  another,  biddy  !  There,  and  there, 
and  there  ;  lots  of  eggs,  biddy  !  How  do  you  suppose  you'll 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  287 

get  your  chickens  down  from  the  woodpile  ?  Hadn't  thought 
of  that,  old  biddy,  had  you?  Now,  biddy,  go  to  work  !  " 

The  old  hen  nestled  and  clucked,  half  disturbed,  and  half 
grateful,  as  Richard  tucked,  one  by  one,  talking  to  her  all  the 
time,  fourteen  warm  white  eggs  under  her  ample  feathers. 
There  was  an  excellent  understanding  between  the  two.  From 
his  great  oxen  down  to  the  smallest  chicken  or  the  shyest 
kitten,  there  was  this  understanding  —  of  help  and  kindness, 
of  some  intuitive  sympathy  with  their  fragment  of  the  common 
life  on  his  part,  and  of  recognition  and  gratitude  on  theirs  — 
between  him  and  all  his  creatures.  The  bees  would  light 
upon  him,  and  lei.  him  handle  them  ;  only  kind,  pura  hearts, 
in  clean,  healthful  bodies,  can  win,  they  say,  this  influence 
with  the  busy,  wise,  hot-tempered  little  things. 

When  he  had  made  his  old  brown  biddy  comfortable,  Rich- 
ard Hathaway  came  down.  He  put  his  hat  on  his  head  again, 
and  sat  down  for  a  few  minutes  on  a  plough-beam  that  lay 
against  the  wall  beneath  the  window. 

He  sat  there  very  quietly,  thinking.  He  took  up  a  piece  of 
chalk  that  lay  upon  the  window-ledge  and  made  idle  marks 
with  it. 

"  Winter  chickens !  "  he  was  thinking  to  himself.  "  Some 
comforts  come  late.  The  old  biddy's  in  the  right  of  it,  though. 
She'll  be  better  off  than  not  to  have  had  'em  at  all.  —  I  wonder 
what  kind  of  winter  comforts,  if  any,  will  ever  come  tome?  I'm 
thirty  years  old.  —  I  don't  think  I've  stopped  to  count  the 
years  before,  since  I  was  twenty.  Human  beings  don't  make 
a  ring  every  year,  as  trees  do.  I've  only  mafle  one  ring  in 
my  life  since  then.  —  I've  been  waiting  all  these  years,  for 
that  one  hope  ;  and  I  never  thought  how  long  I  was  waiting, 
before.  I  never  knew  till  lately  what  it  would  be  to  have  it 
come  to  nothing,  and  what  a  slice  of  my  life  would  be  taken 
out  and  gone. — I  don't  suppose  I'm  different  from  other 
people.  Perhaps  in  ten  years  more  I  shall  have  got  over  it. 
And  then  I  shall  be  forty.  —  I  wonder  what  she'll  do,  and 
come  to,  in  ten  years  ?  —  I've  got  my  mother,  dear  soul ! 
And  she's  sixty-eight.  She's  hearty.  Ten  years  ?  —  Lord  ! 
let  her  live  ten  years,  till  I've  overlived  this  trouble  !  " 


288  HITHERTO  : 

If  he  had  seen  it  all  written  down, — his  thought  and  his 
prayer,  —  he  might,  perhaps,  have  hardly  known  it  again. 
But  it  was  there  ;  Heaven  read  it  all.  Ah,  how  man}-  prayers 
Heaven  does  read,  and,  seemingly,  flings  by  unanswered  ! 

Richard  Hathaway  got  up  and  went  into  the  house,  to 
see  if  his  mother  had  oven-wood  enough  for  her  baking,  and 
whether  she  wanted  anything  from  the  store  at  the  Corner. 

He  put  his  arm  across  her  shoulders,  as  he  came  and  stood 
by  her  at  her  pie-board,  and  looked  in  her  face  with  something 
that  he  wist  not  of  giving  itself  straight  from  his  good  soul 
to  hers. 

"  Don't  work  too  hard,  mother,"  he  said.    ' 

And  then  he  went  down  to  the  barn,  and  harnessed  old 
Putterkoo,  and  drove  away. 

Not  from  his  thoughts  ;  he  perceived  that.  ""  How  a  thing 
follows  a  man  on!"  he  said  to  himself.  "Like  the  moon; 
that  goes  miles  and  miles  with  you,  always  looking  right  over 
yQur  shoulder  just  the  same." 

Day  by  day,  through  toil  and  rest,  it  went  with  him,  always 
the  same  ;  the  same  love,  the  same  pain,  the  same  patience  ; 
the  same  thought  of  her,  and  the  wonder  what  the  time  was 
doing  for  her. 

"  They  must  come  back  pretty  soon,  I  should  think,"  he 
said.  "  They've  been  gone  a  good  while.  Miss  Chism  can't 
leave  the  old  gentleman  much  longer ;  and  inpther'll  want 
Hope.  Mother  sets  store  by  Hope  ;  she's  a  good  girl ;  I  wish 
she'd  been  my  real  sister.  Somcbody'll  be  coming  for  her,  by 
and  by,  like  as* not;  if  anything  should  happen  to  mother  — 
Gee  up,  old  Putterkoo !  Somehow,  I  don't  like  leaving  her 
much,  now  Hope  is  away." 

He  brought  her  back  a  new  butter-print,  —  a  bunch  of 
daisies  ;  and  he  bethought  to  choose  a  great,  beautiful,  cream 
color  and  white  cake-bo\Vl  with  a  wide  lip,  to  replace  the  one 
that  Martha  broke  the  other  day  ;  and  he  put  a  paper  of  large 
white  peppermints  in  his  pocket  for  her.  He  liked  so  much 
to  bring  in  unexpected  parcels  for  her,  and  to  give  them  to 
her  one  by  one.  To  give  her  some  last  little  one,  at  the  end, 
just  when  she  thought  she  had  got  them  all. 


A    STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  289 

Pie  found  her  in  the  little  east-room  when  he  came  home  and 
went  in  there,  with  his  arms  full  of  his  packages.  There  was 
a  pleasant  smell  of  good  things  just  baked  ;  her  morning  labor 
was  finished,  and  she  had  taken  up  her  knitting-work  for  the 
few  minutes  before  Martha  would  come  in  with  the  dinner. 
The  white  cloth  was  laid,  and  the  two  blue  china  plates,  and 
the  bright  tumblers  of  clear,  old-fashioned  glass  with  their 
needle-like  crimpings  around  the  edge  and  base,  and  the  shin- 
ing old  silver  spoons,  and  the  round  salt-cellars  that  matched 
the  tumblers,  and  the  little  tray  with  sugar-bowl  and  cream- 
pitcher,  and  two  shallow,  delicate,  gold-rimmed  cups  ;  for  Mrs. 
Hathaway  liked  her  cup  of  tea  with  her  dinner,  and  liked  it 
alwaj's  in  a  dainty  way.  A  few  sticks  were  burning  with  a 
slow  pleasantness  on  the  glittering  little  brass  firedogs,  for 
the  early  October  day  had  been  somewhat  keen,  except  out 
in  the  broad  sunlight ;.  and  the  cat  —  (cats  always  find  the 
clean  and  cheery  places  ;  they  know  when  a  room  is  just  swept 
and  dusted  and  ready  to  be  comfortable  in,  as  well  as  any- 
body) —  was  curled  up  on  the  rug.  This  is  the  reason, 
doubtless,  why  a  cat  is  so  associated  with  and  suggestive  of 
domestic  cosiness  ;  she  is  rarely  part  of  any  but  a  quiet  and 
orderly  picture  ;  you  won't  find  puss  establishing  herself  will- 
ingly in  a  dirty,  confused  kitchen ;  she  will  walk  through 
a-tiptoe,  with  her  shoulders  up,  seeking  rest  and  finding  none. 

"  It's  real  nice  to  find  you  here,  mother,"  said  Richard,  as 
he  put  his  parcels  down  and  came  over  to  her,  the  freshness 
of  comfort  touching  him,  in  the  place  made  just  so  fresh  with 
comfort  every  day. 

"  Why,  where  should  you  find  me,  son?  Aint  1  always  here 
at  dinner-time  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  that's  it ;  it's  always  nice.  It's  the  always  that 
makes  it." 

"  Richie,  —  I  can't  be  here  always,  you  know." 

"  Mother,  don't  say  that,  —  to-day  !  " 

"  Why  to-day?" 

"Because  I've  been  thinking  all  day,  somehow,  how  I  could 
never  get  along  without  you." 

"  I  wouldn't  say  it  at  all,  Richie,  only  I  can't  help  thinking 
19 


290  HITHERTO  : 

that  when  the  time  comes,  — in  a  long  while,  perhaps,  but  who 
can  tell  ?  —  I  couldn't  bear  to  leave  you  alone.  And  we  might 
have  happy  days  together  beforehand  ;  you  —  and  she  —  and 
I.  You  ought  to  have  a  good  wife  before  many  years  more, 
Richie,  and  be  all  settled  down.  I  don't  have  half  stockings 
enough  to  knit  either ;  and  I'm  tired  of  gray  yarn,"  she  added, 
plaj'fully.  "I  should  like  to  make  some  soft  little  socks 
again,  in  red  and  white  clouds.  Mary's  children  are  all  too 
big,  and  they  wear  white  boughten  ones." 

"  You're  like  the  old  hen,  mother ;  you'd  like  some  winter 
chickens.  Did  you  know  the  old  brown  biddy  was  setting, 
away  up  on  the  farther  end  of  the  woodpile  ?  " 

"  There,  now,  Richard !  that's  some  of  your  putting  up,  I 
know !  You  do  always  like  to  be  puttering  with  the  crea- 
tures." 

"  So  I  do,  mother ;  that's  one  reason  you  and  I  suit  so  well. 
See  how  pleased  you'll  be  when  she  walks  out  with  her  four- 
teen chickens,  and  you  have  to  take  them  all  into  the  back 
kitchen  and  cuddle  'em  in  a  basket !  I  lookout  for  your  little 
comforts,  —  don't  I,  mother?  That  puts  me  in  mind  ;  I've  got 
your  white  Saxony ;  here,  — is  it  fine  enough?" 

"  Oh,  that's  charming  good,  Richard  !  Why,  that's  better 
than  the  last  Hobart  had,  —  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  And  what's  that  ?    Will  that  do,  too  ?  " 

"Well,  now!  How  did  you  ever  come  to  think  of  that, 
without  my  telling?  I'll  make  you  some  sponge  cake  to-mor- 
row. I  never  can  make  it,  except  in  just  such  a  yellow  and 
white  bowl.  Why,  3Tes,  Richard,  it's  a  beauty." 

"And  there's  —  what  is  it?  oh,  it's  a  new  butter-print.  Aint 
you  tired  of  the  rose  ?  Those  are  daisies  ;  and  here's  a  pair 
of  spats,  to  make  little  prickly  balls  with,  or  crimped  rolls.  I 
can  show  you  ;  Mrs.  Hobart  told  me  how." 

Mrs.  Hathaway's  lap  was  full  now ;  and  her  face  was  as 
pleased  as  a  child's.  "  It  wasn't  the  things  so  much,"  she 
said;  "but  it  was  being  always  thought  of;  and  Richard's 
way." 

"  Well,  — I  suppose  you  must  have  some  peppermints,  too, 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  291 

to  keep  you  good.  You'll  have  to  hold  your  hands,  though, 
for  the  paper's  all  untwisted." 

" Didn't  you  get  a  letter  from  Hope? " 

"  "Why,  how  craving  you  are !  Haven't  you  got  enough 
yet?  Why  didn't  you  ask  before?" 

"  Well,  I  thought  I'd  wait  and  see.  Only  when  you  came 
to  the  goodies,  1  began  to  be  afraid  ;  for  I  have  been  expecting 
word  from  her." 

"  Didn't  you  suppose  I  knew  you'd  expect  the  sugar-plums? 
Well,  there's  the  letter ;  and  that  is  the  last  thing." 

"  And  that's  the  best  bringing  of  all,"  said  Mrs.  Hathaway. 

"  I  may  as  well  take  away  the  rest,  then ; "  and  Richard 
relieved  his  mother's  lap  of  its  burden,  and  gathered  up  the 
papers  and  strings,  and  put  the  white  yarn  and  the  pepper- 
mints on  her  work-table,  and  went  off  with  the  rest  to  Martha. 

Hope  wrote :  — 

"  Miss  Chism  has  made  up  her  mind  to  come  home  on  Friday,  and 
I  am  glad  of  it,  for  I  feel  as  if  you  had  spared  me,  now,  longer  than 
you  ought  to ;  but  I  wish  I  could  only  tell  you  what  a  beautiful  time 
we  have  had.  It  is  a  kind  of  a  time  that  don't  go  off  with  the  having, 
but  that  I  can  bring  home  with  me  to  keep.  If  it  had  been  only 
people  and  shops,  as  it  was  in  Boston,  I  might  have  forgotten  in  a 
little  while,  —  at  least  a  good  deal  of  it.  But  I  never  can  forget  the 
sea.  There  has  been  one  stormy  day,  and  a  long  blow ;  the  Septem- 
ber gale,  they  think.  Yesterday  it  was  pleasant  again,  and  we  went 
down  to  the  shore  to  see  the  rollers.  They  came  in  like  great,  leap- 
ing lions,  roaring,  with  terrible  white  manes.  They  plunged  upon 
the  land,  and  grasped  at  it,  but  never  reached  any  further  than  just 
where  it  was  measured  that  they  should  come.  And  I  kept  thinking 
of  the  still,  green  country  away  back  from  it  all,  where  it  never  gets ; 
and  how  the  strangest  thing  of  all  is  that  it  is  always  here,  when  we 
are  up  there  in  the  stillness,  and  some  of  us  in  our  lives  long  have 
never  seen  it.  There  have  been  many  things  in  this  journey  of  ours 
that  have  made  me  think  how  close  things  may  be  that  we  know 
nothing  about.  They  make  me  think  of  '  the  land  that  is  very  far  off,' 
and  yet  perhaps  only  far  off  just  as  these  arc,  till  the  minute  when  all 
at  once  we  come  to  them  —  so  easily. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Ilathaway,  for  all  the  pleasure  I  have  had,  and  for 
which  I  am  so  very  thankful  to  Miss  Chism  and  to  you,  I  do  long  to 
come  home  again,  and  I  am  so  glad  that  by  next  Saturday  I  shall  see 


292  HITHERTO  : 

you.  We  shall  get  home  to  New  Oxford  late  on  Friday,  and  as  Sat- 
urday is  Richard's  day  for  coining  in,  I  shall  be  all  ready  to  go  back 
•with  him.  Give  my  love  to  him,  and  to  Martha.  I  do  hope  that  little 
spotted  kitten  is  safe.  She  did  get  under  the  rockers  and  into  the 
doorways  and  everywhere  else  where  she  shouldn't  be,  so.  I'm  so 
afraid  if  Martha  leaves  the  top  of  the  cistern  off,  she'll  tumble  in.  I 
want  to  find  everything  just  exactly  as  it  was,  safe  and  well;  most  of 
all,  you ;  and  that  you  are  not  tired  out  or  discouraged  with  my  stay- 
ing away  so  Iqng. 

"  Your  thankful  and  loving, 

"  HOPE." 

There  was  something  scratched,  just  after  "  loving." 
Hope  had  been  going  to  write  "  child,"  as  Mrs.  Hathaway 
did  in  the  beginnings  of  her  letters  to  herself.     She  thought 
better  of  that,  and  so  there  was  only  a  thin  little  place  in  the 
paper  instead. 


A   STORY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  293 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

SAFE   AND   WELL. 

I  HAD  written  to  Augusta  Hare,  after  our  arrangement  was 
made  to  go  to  Duxbmy.  I  thought  I  ought,  after  what  Gran- 
don  Cope  had  said  to  me  of  her,  and  of  her  wanting  me.  I 
only  told  her,  simply,  that  I  had  met  Mr.  Cope,  and  what  he 
had  said  ;  that  my  aunt  had  changed  her  plans,  and  that  we 
should  be  away  perhaps  a  week  or  two  longer. 

If  I  could  only  put  off,  and  keep  away  !  It  was  the  only 
relief — perhaps  it  was  a  cowardly  one  —  to  n^self;  but  I 
felt  also  that  it  was  the  best  kindness  to  others.  Allard  Cope 
would  surely  see ;  it  would  be  as  decisive  as  words.  Yet  I 
could  not  get  out  of  my  mind  what  Aunt  Ildy  had  declared  so 
positive!}',  with  her  old-fashioned  authority  of  experience,  — 
"If  he  has  got  anything  to  say,  he  will  say  it." 

I  purposely  refrained  from  giving  anything  like  an  address, 
though  I  knew,  of  course,  they  could  find  out  from  Undo 
Ro3'le  if  they  desired.  I  only  mentioned  that  Aunt  Ildy  wag 
going  to  take  us  to  visit  some  friends  at  the  sea-shore.  I 
hoped  Augusta  would  not  write  to  me,  and  she  did  not. 

It  was  wonderful  how  Hope's  nature  seemed  to  bloom  and 
enlarge,  —  how  quickly  she  received  and  assimilated,  —  in  .ill 
these  new  experiences  and  opportunities.  It  gave  me  a  con- 
ception of  what  a  simply  true  glacf  spirit  might  come  to  in  the 
kingdom  of  heaven,  and  how  speedily. 

IIo'.v  well  1  remember  the  moment  when  we  first  caught  the 
great  breath  of  the  sea!  Not  a  mere  flavor,  or  chill,  such  as 
the  east  wind  brings  up  into  the  city  streets,  or  over  far-away 
fields;  but  the  full,  strong,  tingling,  glorious  life  with  wlm-b 
every  pulse  of  the  air  comes  charged,  seeming  as  if  truly 


294  HITHERTO: 

given  up  out  of  the  pure  depth  in  its  mighty,  wonderful  re- 
spirings. 

We  spent  much  time  upon  the  shore.  We  went  in  parties, 
and  we  went  by  ourselves ;  we  had  whole  long  mornings 
there.  We  sat  on  the  old  rocks,  and  looked  out  upon  the 
blue  boundlessness  of  air  and  sea,  as  into  spiritual  spaces  ; 
life — the  trifle  of  human  doing  —  was  left  behind  upon  the 
land.  How  small  seemed  the  few,  divided  happenings  and 
concernments,  — the  day's  round  and  motive,  —  back  there  in 
little  Broadfields  or  New  Oxford,  or  the  restless  and  contrary 
impulses  of  the  promiscuous  city,  in  view  of  this  great  unit, 
moving  in  tremendous  majesty,  to  and  fro,  drawn  only  by  the 
awful  influences  of  heaven ! 

There  could  be  no  better  place  in  which  to  lose  a  small  or 
a  selfish  regret,  or  an  overweening  anxiety.  I  thought  less 
of  myself;  I  seemed,  indeed,  to  have  got  away  from  myself; 
to  have  left  that  insignificance  behind.  I  drew  in  breaths 
from  an  infinite  freedom,  that  seemed  to  widen  my  heart  and 
make  it  strong. 

Hope  used  to  sit  in  long  silences,  with  that  awed  light  in 
her  golden,  lustrous  e37es,  and  then  come  back,  as  it  were,  just 
to  say  something  out  of  an  apocalypse. 

"  It  is  like  the  earth  changing  and  melting  away  ;  turning 
from  things  to  spirit ;  from  glory  to  glory  ;  from  purer  to  most 
pure.  The  water  —  and,  bej-ond,  the  sky  ;  it  is  like  the  Hem 
of  the  Garment !  " 

She  put  her  hand  out  toward  the  white  fringe  of  the  incom- 
ing waves,  that  had  crept  up,  in  the  sunlighted  morning  tide, 
nearer  and  nearer  us  where  we  sat. 

It  was  the  last  still,  summer-sweet  morning  of  those  Sep- 
tember days  ;  after  that  came  the  gale.  I  have  the  picture 
of  it  now  in  my  very  heart ;  and  I  hear  Hope's  word  again 
always  as  I  look  upon  it. 

They  kept  us  there  for  more  than  a  fortnight.  There  is 
little  such  visiting  or  welcoming  in  these  days.  People  can 
make  morning  calls,  now,  twenty  miles  away;  if  they  go 
forty,  perhaps  they  stay  to  dinner. 


A   STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  295 

We  got  home  on  a  Friday  night.  Hope  was  to  stay  -with 
us  till  morning. 

Lucretia  seemed  to  be  divided,  in  her  comfortable  reception 
of  us,  between  the  pride  of  her  own  house-keeping,  and  the 
abrupt  realization  that  Miss  Chism  being  'actually  there,  was 
different  from  her  being  only  expected.  That  the  keys  and  the 
arrangements  were  to  be  given  up  ;  whether  she  should  warm 
and  feed  her  first  and  then  do  it,  or  whether  she  should  relin- 
quish all  authority  and  let  her  choose  how  she  would  take 
care  of  herself,  was  a  sudden  problem  of  succession.  She  set 
forth  her  good  cheer  half  deprecatingly. 

Hope  and  I  went  to  bed  early,  in  the  front  room.  "We 
were  tired  and  wakeful,  both ;  Hope  was  restless  with  the 
feeling  of  being  so  near  home,  and  not  quite  there  ;  I  had  all 
my  old  perplexing  worries,  in  the  same  old  place,  to  get  into 
again  and  cover  myself  up  with  just  as  I  got  into  my  bed. 

So  we  lay  with  our  eyes  wide  open,  and  making  many 
unquiet  turns,  for  a  good  while ;  now  and  then  speaking  to 
each  other,  but  for  the  most  part  silent,  for  two  reasons :  we 
were  really  needing  and  longing  to  get  to  sleep  ;  and  in  the 
next  place,  Aunt  Ildy  was  in  the  adjoining  room  in  her  bed 
against  the  wall,  and  we  might  reasonably  expect  a  sharp, 
warning  rap  if  we  trespassed  upon  the  peace  of  the  night  with 
any  chatter. 

I  think  it  must  have  been  long  past  eleven  o'clock  before 
we  became  quietly  unconscious,  and  I  am  sure  that  Aunt  Ildy 
and  Uncle  Royle  had  gone  off  into  dreams  nearly  two  hours 
before,  to  the  rhythm  of  "  fifteen  two,  fifteen  four  ;  "  for  they 
had  their  long  intermitted  game  of  cribbage  the  first  thing 
after  tea  was  cleared  away,  and  counted  fifteens  up  to  the  very 
last  minute  of  taking  their  candles  and  going  off  to  their 
rooms. 

It  was  a  little  after  twelve,  perhaps,  when,  from  that  first, 
sound,  grasping  sleep  from  which  it  is  such  a  pain  to  be 
awakened,  like  the  bringing  back  to  life  from  almost  death, 
that  I  started  suddenly  with  a  vague  feeling  of  some  noise, 
half-dreamed  and  half-realized,  —  a  person  knocking  somewhere 
down  below. 


296  HITHERTO: 

I  sat  up  in  bed  and  listened  ;  somebody  really  was  moving 
about  on  the  broad  step  at  the  top  of  the  i-ailed  flight  that  ran 
up  from  the  shop  door  to  the  house  entrance.  Somebody  in 
great,  heavy  boots,  who  was  tired  of  waiting,  and  who  made 
as  much  noise  as  possible  upon  the  little  platform  that  allowed 
of  three  steps  to  and  fro. 

I  sprang  out  of  bed,  and  ran  to  the  window ;  just  as  I 
pushed  it  cautiously  up,  the  knocking  came  again  ;  this  time 
with  a  whip-handle,  and  rang  through  the  house. 

"  For  —  gracious  —  sake  ! "  cried  Aunt  Ildy's  voice  at  her 
open  door,  instantly ;  and  Hope  was  at  my  side  at  the 
window. 

I  called  to  the  man. 

"  What  do  you  want,  sir?"  I  asked. 

"  Has  the  folks  got  home?" 

"  The  family  is  all  at  home,  —  yes,"  I  replied,  thinking  it 
well  that  he  should  know,  whoever  he  might  be,  that  we  were 
in  full  domestic  force. 

"  I  come  over  from  the  Hathaways,"  he  called  back.  "  The 
old  lady's  had  an  awful  fall,  and  they  want  Hope  Devine.  I've 
ben  for  the  doctor,  and  was  to  come  and  fetch  her.  She'd 
better  be  as  spry  as  she  can.  Martha's  awful  scairt." 

Hope  had  lit  a  match  and  a  candle,  and  the  light,  as  I 
turned  round  and  saw  her  in  it,  showed  her  deadly  pale,  but 
she  never  said  a  word,  only  put  her  feet  quickly  into  her  slip- 
pers, and  threw  a  flannel  gown  on.  She  was  downstairs,  and 
at  the  door,  before  I  could  make  Aunt  Ildy  understand. 

"  Has  the  doctor  gone  to  Broadfields  ? "  we  heard  her  ask, 
as  the  man  came  in. 

"Yes,  I  didn't  lose  no  time  with  him;  he's  used  to  being 
knocked  up.  I  guess  I've  ben  a-trying  my  fists  on  that  air 
door  for  a  matter  of  twentjr  minutes." 

"  Come  in,  Jabez,  and  sit  down  ;  I  shall  be  ready  in  ten 
minutes." 

Hope  glided  swiftly  up  the  stairs  again,  and  passed  Aunt 
Hdy  and  me  in  the  entry,  with  her  pale  face,  still  saying  not 
a  hindering  word.  She  sat  down  on  a  cricket,  drew  on  her 
stockings  quickly,  then  sprang  up  and  flashed  herself,  as  it 


A    STORY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  297 

were,  into  her  other  garments,  one  after  another,  tossed  her 
hair  back  from  her  temples  and  rolled  it  into  a  knot  behind, 
and  had  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl  in  less  than  the  first  seven 
minutes  of  the  ten.  I  stood  and  handed  her  things. 

Aunt  Ildy  had  got  on  her  wadded  wrapper,   and  her  cloth 

shoes,  and  her  frisette,  and  had  gone  downstairs  ;    and  when 

we  came,   was  giving  the  man   a  glass   of  wine,  and  some 

» doughnuts,  and  hearing  the  details  of  what  he  had  to  tell, 

which  Hope  had  not  inquired. 

"  It  was  down  the  back-chamber  stairs  ;  most  o'  the  way,  I 
guess,  from  top  to  bottom,  and  it's  a  crooked  flight.  Martha 
says  'twas  that  air  dreadful  little  cat,  a-laying  on  the  step. 
She  aint  moved  sence ;  and  they  can't  do  nothing  to  git  her 
out  o'  the  sog." 

"  Drink  a  glass  of  wine,  Hope,  to  warm  you,"  said  Aunt 
Ildy,  fairly  putting  it  to  her  lips,  for  Hope  hardly  noticed 
what  was  said.  "  The  man's  in  a  chaise,  and  I  can't  hinder 
you  to  get  ready,  either  ;  but  I'll  be  out  there  by  sunrise.  I've 
told  Royle,  and  sent  him  back  to  bed,  so's  to  get  him  up 
again  in  season." 

Hope  swallowed  the  wine,  and  it  brought  a  kind  of  sob 
with  its  stimulation  ;  but  she  still  said  nothing,  only  kissed 
Aunt  Ildy  and  me,  and  passed  —  the  same  swift,  pale  vis 
ion  —  out  of  the  house,  the.  man  following. 

It  was  all  over  in  such  a  mere  fragment  of  time. 

Aunt  Ildy  and  I  stood  and  looked  at  each  other  for  a  min- 
ute after  the  door  was  shut ;  and  then  she  went  back  into  the 
sitting-room,  and  put  away  the  cake  and  wine. 

"  O  Aunt  Ildy  !  "  I  cried,  going  after  her,  and  standing 
by.  "  What  will  they  do?" 

"  I  can't  talk  about  it,  child,  I've  got  to  save  up.  I  shall 
take  six  drops  of  camphor,  and  give  you  six  ;  and  we  must 
just  hush  up  and  go  to  bed  again.  I've  got  to  sleep  from  no\v 
till  half-past  four  o'clock." 

That  very  first  morning  at  home,  while  Aunt  Ildy  was  out 
at  Broadfields,  Augusta  Hare  came  down  to  see  me. 

"  You  behaved  very  badly,"  she  said,  with  her  graceful,  pol- 
ished playfulness,  "  running  away  and  never  coming  to  see 


298  HITHERTO  : 

me,  as  was  proper.  But  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  get  it  all 
over,  and  for  fear,  if  I  waited,  I  should  find  myself  in  duty 
bound  to  stand  upon  my  dignity  again,  I  have  come  right  to 
you.  You  see  I  must  have  you  for  one  of  the  bridesmaids  ; 
not  regular  bridesmaids  either,  —  there  is  to  be  no  set,  equal 
number  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  ;  but  Grandon's  brother, 
and  some  of  his  particular  friends  will  be  about  him,  and 
mine  with  me ;  just  grouped,  you  know,  a  sort  of  general, 
friendly  backing  up.  And  it  is  to  be  in  a  fortnight,  now  ;  the 
cards  are  just  going  out.  I  think  I  am  very  good,  Nannie, 
and  I  think  you  can't  refuse." 

*'  I  do  thank  you  very  much,"  I  said,  touched  by  the  persist- 
ence of  her  kindness,  and  her  notice  of  me ;  "  but  }7ou  don't 
know.  Something  has  just  happened.  They  are  in  great 
trouble  out  at  the  Farm,  and  Aunt  Ildy  is  there.  Mrs.  Hatha- 
way has  met  with  a  terrible  accident.  I  couldn't  think  of 
dresses  and  weddings,  now,  Augusta." 

Augusta's  face  changed.  She  looked  really,  more  than  dis- 
appointed ;  as  if  some  nicely  adjusted  plan  had  gone  all  wrong 
with  a  sudden,  insuperable  difficulty. 

"  Besides,"  I  began  again,  and  stopped.  The  rest  was  in 
my  face,  though ;  in  my  consciousness,  at  any  rate,  so  vividly 
that  it  touched  hers  magnetically. 

"  There  isn't  any  besides,"  she  answered  quickly.  "  There's 
no  use  in  building  windmills  on  purpose  to  run  against.  I 
believe  I  frightened  you  more  than  I  needed,  out  there  at  the 
Hathaways',  that  day.  You  were  nervous,  and  I  was  looking 
too  far  ahead, —  into  my  hopes  and  dreams  for  you,  perhaps, 
Nannie.  My  own  dreams  had  just  come  true,  you  know,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  everything  was  going  to  turn  out  all  at  once, 
like  the  end  of  a  novel ;  or  else  be  spoiled  in  some  foolish 
hurry.  We  had  better  not  have  talked  about  it  that  day, 
Nannie.  Everything  always  works  out  right,  if  people  just 
keep  straight  on.  That  is  what  Grandon  says.  You  don't 
mean  to  be  rude  to  the  Copes,  surely,  and  throw  back  all  their 
friendship  in  their  faces,  for  no  reason  at  all  ?  Especially  now 
that  1  am  going  to  be  a  Cope  ?  "  she  added,  with  her  little  air 
of  confident  winsomeness. 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  299 

I  could  see  afterwards  how  it  all  was,  and  what  it  meant. 
I  could  not  understand,  at  the  moment,  either  Augusta  Hare's 
magnanimity  and  patience,  or  the  motive  of  her  policy. 

Why  should  she  care  so  much  for  what  became  of  me  ?  Why 
should  I  have  been  any  part  of  her  dreams? 

It  was  simply  a  mixture  of  vanity  and  good-nature,  added 
to  a  natural  love  for  planning  and  contriving,  and  a  great  tact 
in  carrying  things  out. 

Augusta  must  always  be  the  centre  of  the  tableau  ;  I  should 
do  excellently  well  as  an  accessory.  She  liked  me,  and  she 
thought  I  should  never  really  be  in  her  way.  I  admired  her, 
too.  She  had  always  been  fond  of  that  childish  homage  of 
mine. 

She  was  to  marry  Grandon  Cope.  In  the  charming  sur- 
roundings of  South  Side,  she  was  to  be  the  conspicuous  ob- 
ject ;  the  young,  elegant  matron ;  the  mistress  in  years  to 
come.  The  full  light  was  to  fall  upon  her.  It  would  depend 
very  much  upon  whom  Allard  married,  whether  any  shadow  of 
rivalry  interfered,  or  any  cross  light  spoiled  the  grouping.  It 
would  be  all  very  well  if  he  took  quiet,  little,  grateful  me. 
That  would  be  quite  comfortable,  and  really  help  to  complete 
her  happiness.  She  knew  all  about  me,  and  liked  me,  and  I 
looked  properly  up  to  her.  There  was  thorough  kindness,  too, 
as  far  as  it  went ;  she  knew  it  would  be  such  an  excellent 
thing  for  me  ;  so  much  better  than  I  might  have  expected  ; 
and  it  would  be  such  a  satisfaction  to  have  assisted  to  bring  it 
about. 

She  had  had  time  to  think  that  she  had  made  a  misstep  ; 
that  the  light  in  which  she  had  put  affairs  in  that  talk  at 
Broadfields  was  fatal,  in  my  then  state  of  feeling,  to  the 
whole.  Perhaps  she  discerned  somewhat,  with  that  subtle 
tact  of  hers,  of  the  secret,  hitherto  undefined  influence,  that 
suddenly  shaped  itself  to  a  dim  recognition  with  me,  and 
knowing  that  now,  in  the  nature  of  things,  this  must  change, 
or  subside  into  its  suitable  place,  she  judged  that  the  undue 
revulsion  of  my  feelings  might,  perhaps,  be  temporary  ;  that 
all  would  look  different  to  me  again  by  and  by.  • 

She  wanted  to  get  back  to  safe,  uncommitted  relations;  to 


300  HITHERTO .' 

let  things  work  a  little  longer  ;  so,  perhaps,  they  would  work 
out.  Allard  must  speak  for  himself,  when  the  time  came.  I 
think  she  had  doubtless  become  very  elder-sisterly  and  inti- 
mate with  him  already,  and  won  his  confidence  in  that  marvel- 
lous way  in  which  she  won  eveiybody's.  She  had  probably 
eased  his  mind  as  she  was  trying  now  to  ease  mine  ;  persuaded 
him  that  this  going  away  would  be  quite  as  likely  to  result  in 
his  favor  as  otherwise  ;  that  girls  had  to  have  time  to  find 
themselves  out ;  if  they  were  let  alone  awhile,  they  would 
know  better  what  they  wanted. 

I  can  somehow  imagine  just  what  she  would  have  been 
likely  to  say. 

She  left  me  that  morning,  remarking  that  she  would  come 
in  again,  or  send,  to-morrow ;  she  should  be  anxious  to  know 
how  Mrs.  Hathaway  was ;  she  was  so  excessively  sorry  that 
anything  should  have  happened  to  her. 

The  next  morning,  when  her  little  note  of  inquiry  came,  I 
had  to  answer  that  Aunt  Ildy  was  still  at  the  Farm  ;  that 
Mrs.  Hathaway  continued  in  the  same  strange,  dangerous 
state ;  that  I  supposed  there  was  little  hope  that  she  would 
recover  her  injuries  ;  that  the  doctor  feared  there  was  broken 
nervous  connection  in  some  part  of  the  spine,  from  the  shock 
of  the  fall ;  that  they  were  all  in  great  trouble,  and  that  I  was 
greatly  troubled  for  them. 

Neither  she  nor  I  spoke  further  of  the  interrupted  plans. 
Augusta  was  always  well-bred  ;  she  always  gave  way  to  pro- 
prieties. 

So  a  week  went  by.  Aunt  Ildy  drove  in  twice  to  see  how 
we  were  getting  on,  to  bring  us  news,  and  to  get  things  that 
she  wanted.  At  the  end  of  the  week,  dear  Mrs.  Hathaway 
was  gone.  Out  of  the  still,  ntysterious  half-death,  half-life, 
that  held  them  all  in  such  pain  and  anxiety,  she  passed,  with 
a  hardly  perceptible  change  at  last,  quite  away  from  their 
sight  and  hold,  into  that  fulness  of  life  which  needs  not  the 
body,  but  leaves  it  to  its  rest. 

And  Richard  Hathaway  was  all  alone. 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  301 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

WINTER   DATS. 

WHAT  would  Hope  do  now  ? 

People  began  over  again  with  that,  already. 

"She  can't  stay  .there  with  that  young  man,  of  course," 
said  Lucretia ;  and  everybody  else,  we  knew,  was  saying  the 
same. 

It  made  me  cross. 

"  It's  her  home,  Lucretia,"  I  said,  snapping  up  all  Broad- 
fields  over  Lucretia's  shoulders.  "  Why  shouldn't  she  stay 
there  ?  '  That  young  man '  has  always  been  there  ;  it's  noth- 
ing new ;  and  she's  used  to  his  ways,  and  nobody  could  make 
him  half  so  comfortable  as  she  can." 

"  That's  for  .he  and  she  to  settle  betwixt  themselves,"  re- 
plied Lucretia,  with  short  significance. 

"  I  shall  come  back  to-morrow,  and  stay  a  week,"  Aunt 
Ildy  said  to  Hope,  the  afternoon  of  the  funeral,  when  we  had 
got  back  to  the  Farm.  "That's  as  long  as  I  can % stay; 
Royle's  rheumatism  is  beginning  to  plague  him,  and  he  wants 
me ;  but  that'll  give  you  time  to  look  round  and  settle  your 
plans." 

"  Why,  Miss  Chism,  I  haven't  any  plans  to  settle  !  "  said 
Hope,  simply.  "  I  shall  just  try  and  keep  everything  on,  her 
way.  I  don't  want  there  to  be  any  difference,  except  —  " 
The  thought  of  the  great  difference  stopped  Hope's  word  with 
tears. 

"  Child,  can't  you  see  that  it  is  different?  Do  you  suppose 
you  can  stay  on  here  ?  Richard  Hathaway's  got  to  have  a 
house-keeper.  You  aint  old  enough." 

Hope's  face  flushed,  but  not  with  the  idea  Miss  Chism  in- 
tended to  convey. 


302  HITHERTO  : 

"  I  don't  believe  anybod}-,  ever  so  much  older,  could  do  any 
better  for  Richard  than  I  would.  I  know  just  how  he  likes 
things.  Why,  Miss  Chism,  he  couldn't  get  along  with  any 
new  —  old  —  woman  !  " 

"It  isn't  that,  Hope.  Can't  you  see?  It  isn't  proper. 
Folks  would  talk." 

Then  Hope  saw.  Then  she  grew  grandly  indignant.  Her 
pure  intent  for  the  first  time  clashed  against  the  world's  care- 
ful and  ostentatious  wall  of  defences,  and  struck  young  fire 
against  the  stones. 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  go  away  for  that?"  she  cried,  with 
the  blaze  in  her  eyes.  "  When  he  needs  me  so,  and  nobody 
else  could  do  ?  When  his  mother  depended  on  me  so  ?  De- 
pends on  me  now,  Miss  Chism?" 

"Well — only  we  aiut  quite  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven 
yet,"  said  Aunt  Ildy,  slowly,  and  very  dubiously. 

"  We're  in  God's  world,  dear  Miss  Chism,  and  just  where 
he  has  put  us  every  one,"  said  Hope,  sweetly  and  solemnly. 
"I  knoiv  I  ought  to  stay — a  while  —  and  look  after 
Richard.  Everybody  mustn't  go  away  and  leave  him,  all  at 
once.  Why,  he  wouldn't  let  me  go,  Miss  Ikty,  I  don't  believe, 
even  if  you  said  so  to  him !  " 

"  I  shall  come  to-morrow,  and  stay  a  week."  Aunt  Ildy 
returned  upon  this,  and  let  it  rest  there  for  the  time. 

It  ended,  in  Hope's  taking,  quietly,  without  any  more  talk, 
her  own  way.  She  stayed  on,  with  Martha  and  Richard,  fol- 
lowing her  old,  simple  round  of  duties,  living  just  as  she 
always  had  lived.  People  talked,  —  of  the  "  strangeness  of 
her  not  minding,"  that  was  all,  of  course  ;  Hope  knew  little  of 
what  they  said,  and  cared  less. 

And  so  the  winter  went  by. 

The  Grandon  Copes  were  married  and  gone.  Gone  to  stay 
some  few  months  in  Washington,  during  the  session  ;  before 
they  returned,  they  would  visit  Cincinnati,  and  Professor 
Mitchell's  new  Observatory,  —  a  great  interest  with  Grandon 
Cope,  and  an  enterprise  of  .which  he  and  his  father  had  been 
among  the  liberal  helpers.  Grandon  had  his  own  large,  inde- 
pendent property,  bequeathed  to  him  by  his  English  great- 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  303 

uncle,  the  late  Hugh  Grandon,  of  the  famous  London  mercan- 
tile house  of  Grandon,  Cope,  &  Co. 

And  I  was  settled  down  again,  in  the  old  routine.  My  life 
had1  gone  back  into  plain  prose  again.  Even  the  perplexities 
that  had  been  a  painful  excitement,  yet  still  excitement  while 
they  lasted,  were  over.  That  afternoon,  when  Aunt  Ildy 
would  have  the  fire  lighted  in  the  best  parlor,  and  such  a  cere- 
mony made  of  his  coming,  like  a  "  conference  "  among  the 
Grandisons,  —  when  I  saw  Allard  Cope  alone,  and  listened  to 
what  he  had  to  say,  and  had  come  determinately,  as  she  fore- 
told, and  demanded  of  Aunt  Ildy  permission  and  opportunity 
to  say ;  when  I  had  answered  him,  plainly  and  sadly,  that  it 
was  a  great  deal  better  than  I  had  any  deserving  for,  and  that 
I  was  ashamed,  and  sony,  and  grateful,  but  that  it  could  not 
be,  it  would  not  be  honest  to  him  to  let  it  be,  — that  winter 
afternoon  shut  down  and  ended,  with  the  short  twilight,  the 
brief  romance  also,  that  had  gleamed  into  my  homely  life. 

When  I  think  of  the  rest  of  that  winter,  I  just  remember 
putting  on,  day  after  day,  the  same  dark-brown  cashmere 
dress,  with  narrow,  bright-colored  Persian  stripes  ;  sewing  in 
the  afternoon  with  Aunt  Ildy  on  a  new  dozen  of  shirts  that  we 
were  making  for  Uncle  Royle  ;  putting  a  fresh  part-breadth 
—  matching  the  stripes  carefulty  —  into  my  dress,  when  I  had 
burned  it  one  day  against  the  stove  ;  setting  in  new  under- 
sides to  the  tight-fitting  sleeves  when  they  had  frayed  at  the 
elbows  ;  taking  out  and  putting  away  the  tea-things  and  fresh- 
ening the  fire,  and  keeping  on  with  the  shirts,  in  the  evenings, 
while  Aunt  Ildy  and  Uncle  Royle  played  cribbage  between 
tea  and  bed  time.  I  remember  Richard  Hathaway's  sad  face 
and  quiet  manner,  as  he  came  in  every  Saturday  and  brought 
Hope's  nice  butter,  fresh  and  sweet  as  June  all  winter.  I  do 
not  think  I  remember  anything  else. 

Allard  Cope  went  to  New  York,  and  began  to  practise  law. 
The  house  at  South  Side  was  shut  up  for  several  months. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cope  were  in  Boston.  The  girls  were  with 
them  a  part  of  the  time,  and  for  a  part  were  visiting  in  differ- 
ent places  among  their  friends. 

Nolhing  happened.     All  the  happenings  had  been  in  those 


304  HITHERTO  : 

few  summer  and  autumn  weeks.  Nothing  ever  would  happen, 
I  thought,  again. 

It  was  nearly  spring  when  Uncle  Royle  was  taken  down 
with  that  rheumatic  fever.  He  had  had  a  good  deal  of  his 
old  rheumatic  pain  and  stiffness,  all  winter ;  but  during  the 
mild,  damp  weather  of  February  he  took  cold,  and  after  that 
a  terrible  inflammatory  attack  set  in,  which  laid  him  up  with 
tedious  and  intense  suffering  for  nearly  two  months. 

Then  Aunt  Ildy  and  I  had  our  hands  full  with  nursing ;  and 
then  I  found  out  yet  more  of  what  Aunt  Ildy  really  was. 
She  was  sharp  and  imperative.  It  was,  "  Here,  quick ! " 
"  Give  me  that ! "  "  Run  and  do  this  !  "  "  Don't  hinder  ; 
hush ;  there !  let  me  come  ! "  But  how  dearly  she  did  love 
Uncle  Royle ! 

I  could  seem  to  see  the  little  boy  and  girl,  —  brother  and 
sister,  —  between  them  then,  as  if  they  had  never  grown  old, 
or  slow,  or  hard. 

We  kept  his  limbs  swathed  in  wet,  cool  bandages ;  and  he 
thought,  in  the  wanderings  of  fever  and  pain,  that  he  was  a 
child  again,  wading  in  a  brook  ;  and  Aunt  Ildy  humored  him,  and 
talked  about  the  fishes,  and  the  brook  lilies,  and  school-time  ; 
—  he  got  his  real  anxiety  about  his  business  all  mixed  up  with 
his  fancied  boyish  Worry  about  being  late  at  school,  and  miss- 
ing his  lessons ;  — "  but  I  must  keep  my  feet  in  the  water  a 
little  longer,  Ildy,"  he  would  say ;  "  I  must  go  into  that 
deep  place  once  more ;  I  want  to  feel  the  water  up  to  my 
knees  ;  it  takes  the  fire  out." 

And  she  would  tell  him  "there  was  plenty  of  time;  the 
academy  quarter-bell  hadn't  rung  yet." 

"  You'll  tell  me  when  it  does,  won't  you?  I  think  I  should 
like  to  lie  down  here,  and  just  go  to  sleep  a  minute." 

And  then,  perhaps,  she  would  shake  her  finger  at  me,  in 
her  sharp,  impatient  way,  and  point  to  the  window-shutter, 
with  a  push  at  it  in  the  air,  for  me  to  go  and  shut  it  closer ; 
and  all  the  while,  her  voice  would  be  so  kind  to  him,  saying, 
"Yes,  Royle,  go  to  sleep  ;  it's  shady  now ;  and  there's  plenty 
of  time  ; "  and  more  than  once  I  saw  tears  in  her  eyes  that  she 
had  no  idea  I  knew  of. 


A    STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  305 

So  I  could  be  patient,  seeing  truly  what  was  in  her,  and 
what  her  impatience  came  from  ;  and  Aunt  Ildy  and  I  began 
to  fit  each  other  more  comfortably  and  kindly,  in  that  hard, 
weary  time,  than  ever  we  did  before. 

When  the  days  grew  sunny  toward  the  end  of  April,  and 
as  May  came  in,  sweet  and  springlike  this  year,  Uncle  Royle 
grew  slowly  better ;  and  by  the  time  the  buds  were  bursting 
into  leaf,  and  the  balm-trees  in  the  lane  sent  out  their  full 
breath  of  healing,  and  we  had  the  windows  open  in  the  long, 
bright  mornings,  he  could  sit  up  and  look  out  and  enjoy  it  all, 
and  eat  his  broiled  chicken,  or  his  broth.  Richard  Hathaway 
brought  him  a  chicken  every  time  he  came  in ;  some  of  a  late 
autumn  brood  that  were  large  and  beautiful  now,  fed  all  winter 
with  sweet  grains,  and  cared  for  as  he  cared  for  living  things. 

The  spring  cheered  us  all  up ;  though  Aunt  Ildy  was 
"  crazed  "  with  the  cleaning  and  the  sewing  and  the  thousand 
things  that  always  crazed  her  when  the  drive  was  on,  and  that 
were  a  fearful  accumulation  now,  from  the  demands  of  sick- 
ness that  had  so  long  thrust  all  else  aside. 

Lucretia  had  "  expected  it,"  she  said  ;  "  there'd  ben  a  look- 
in-for  of  judgment  in  her  mind  all  along,  and  now  here  'twas. 
If  there  isn't  a  March  wind  in  the  house,  there  must  be  a  May 
thunder-storm  ;  but  'twill  be  all  the  same,  come  June,  let  alone 
a  hunklred  years  hence." 

So  she  worked  on,  with  a  great  might,  and  a  canty  good- 
will, from  the  attic  lumber  that  must  be  all  turned  over  once 
a  year,  and  freshly  bestowed,  to  the  firkins  and  barrels  in  the 
rambling  cellar ;  until  she  declared,  with  a  Spartan  triumph, 
that  "  there  wasn't  a  teaspoonful  of  dust  in  the  house,  nor  a 
bone  that  didn't  ache,  through  and  through,  in  her  body." 

Martha  came  in  one  clay,  from  the  Farm,  shopping,  and 
stopped  for  a  chat. 

"  What's  the  sperrichual  use,  do  you  spose,  of  spring  clean- 
ings?" sa}'s  she.  "  It's  a  teachin'  world,  and  so  I  presume 
there's  a  reason  ;  though  why  it  wasn't  all  cleared  up  after  the 
Creation,  and  fixed  so's  to  sta}',  has  al \vays  been  one  of  the 
providential  mysteries  to  me.  Just  think  what  the  world 
would  be,  if  it  only  warn't  for  dirt!  Why,  I  don't  see  why 
20 


306  HITHERTO: 

it  wouldn't  be  kingdom  come,  right  off!  Take  away  the  wash- 
daj^s,  and  the  scrub-days,  and  the  cleanin'  up  after  everything, 
and  clo'es  growin'  mean  and  good-for-nothin'  with  the  grim  o' 
wearin',  and  I  guess  there  wouldn't  be  anj^thing  left  but  the 
'  rest  that  remaineth,'  and  the  hallelujahs  !  " 

Her  quaint  words  struck  me.  It  seemed  as  if  the  "  putting 
on  of  incorruption  "  would  hold  the  whole.  I  remembered  them 
and  told  them  afterward  to  Hope.  She  always  had  a  "  spirit- 
ual meaning." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Hope.  "  There's  a  reason  ;  the  same 
reason  that  runs  through  everything.  It's  a  teaching  world, 
as  Martha  says  ;  we  have  to  deal  with  the  outside  as  we  ought 
to  with  the  in  ;  they're  made  to  fit,  and  help.  If  we  didn't  have 
to  scrub  and  clean,  how  should  we  learn  to  be  thorough  with 
ourselves  ?  and  thoroughness  is  triteness.  I  think  when  we  come 
to  hate  dirt  in  house-corners,  we  begin  to  hate  it  in  soul-cor- 
ners, too  ;  and  that's  precisely  what  the  training  is  for.  I  never 
thought  of  it  before,  —  exactly"  she  went  on,  with  her  happy 
look  of  new  truth ;  "  but  that's  how  cleanliness  is  next  to 
godliness,  and  God's  own  sign  for  it,  —  isn't  it?  And  that's 
why  busy  home-life  is  so  good  for  people ;  we're  doing  double 
when  we  dust  and  put  right,  and  we  don't  even  know  it. 
We're  learning,  like  the  babies  with  their  blocks." 

"  '  A  servant  with  this  clause 

Makes  meanest  work  divine; 
Who  sweeps  a  room,  as  by  God's  laws, 
Makes  that,  and  the  action,  fine.' " 

I  quoted  to  her. 

"  Why,  who  said  that?  "  she  asked,  quickly. 

"  George  Herbert,"  I  told  Tier. 

"  Did  he  say  any  more  like  it?  " 

I  wish  I  could  put  down  the  words  to  make  them  sound  like 
Hope,  as  she  spoke  when  she  was  bright  and  full,  with  quick, 
pleased  thought ;  and  when  a  thought  was  given  her  that  met 
hers. 

"Did  he  say  any  more  like  it?"  The  bits  of  Saxon 
syllables  —  her  sudden,  glad  questions  or  exclamations 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  307 

always  shaped  themselves  in  such  —  fell  like  rapid  little  rip- 
ples over  her  lips ;  her  tongue  rolled,  as  it  were,  a  swift, 
musical  reveillee  with  them  ;  they  were  indescribable  forth- 
springings  of  an  instant,  wide-awakened  delight. 

I  found  the  book  for  her,  and  she  took  it  home. 

Hope  grew  just  as  the  plants  grow ;  she  sent  out  ber  rootlets, 
and  she  unfolded  the  fresh  leaves  of  her  own  beautiful  life,  and 
from  earth  and  air  there  came  to  her  continually  the  feeling 
and  the  influences  she  needed.  Knowledges  gathered  them- 
selves to  her ;  she  came  across  them  ;  "  everything  put  her  in 
mind  ;  "  the  most  beautiful  things  were  hers  beforehand  ;  she 
knew  them  instantly,  by  sight ;  by  sweet  elective  affinities  she 
made  herself  a  dweller  in  the  best,  without  need  of  deliberate, 
purposeful  effort  of  culture,  or  far,  painstaking  search.  I 
thought  many  times  of  what  Richard  had  said  of  her  and  her 
gentle  content :  "  In  the  middle  of  her  pasture."  I  thought, 
too,  of  the  words  that  were  so  like,  —  "He  feedeth  me  in 
green  pastures  ;  he  leadeth  me  beside  the  still  waters  ;  he  re- 
storeth  —  "  he  complete th — "  my  soul." 

Hope  came  over  often,  after  the  spring  business  was  over 
with  us  and  at  the  Farm. 

One  day,  while  she  was  with  us,  she  fell,  two  or  three  times, 
into  some  thoughtful,  occupied  mood,  that  seemed  strange  to 
me.  Then,  at  last,  just  before  she  went  away,  she  said  to 
Aunt  Ildy,  with  something  of  that  same  quick,  rippling  Avay 
of  speech  that  signified  also  when  a  thing  was  all  thought  out 
and  finished  in  her  mind  :  — 

"  I've  come  to  it,  Miss  Chism.  I've  found  out  it  will  be  best. 
And  the  work  is  clone,  and  things  are  all  straight,  and  summer 
is  coming,  and  —  perhaps  —  Richard  can  begin  to  do  just  as 
well  without  me.  But  —  you  see  —  where  shall  I  go  ?  " 

She  laughed  a  little  fearless  laugh,  as  the  last  four  words 
came  out  in  a  spin  of  huny  ;  as  if  it  were  only  funny  to  think 
that  at  the  moment  she  really  did  not  know. 

"  Come  here,"  said  Aunt  Ildy,  right  off. 

"  Why  !  Might  I?  If  I  should  quite  make  up  my  mind, — 
some  day,  suddenly,  perhaps,  —  might  I  say  that  ?  " 


308  HITHERTO  : 

"  Yes  ;  that's  exactly  what  you  might  say ;  and  the  best 
thing,  too." 

"Should  I  be  of  any  consequence — any  help  —  I  mean? 
Wouldn't  it  be  a  fifth  whee^,  Miss  Ildy  ?  " 

"You're  always  worth  your  bread  and  butter  —  and  your 
cake,  too.  Come  whenever  you  get  ready." 

.1  sat  by,  thinking  how  strangely  things  came  about,  all  in  a 
minute  ;  wondering  what  Richard  Hathaway  would  do  without 
her,  or  if  he  would  let  her  go ;  and  feeling  how  pleasant  and 
nice  it  would  be  if  Hope  did  come  to  live  with  us. 

But  first,  —  Richard  had  been  talking  about  it  this  great 
while,  ever  since  Uncle  Royle  began  to  get  better,  —  we  were 
to  go  to  the  Farm,  all  of  us,  and  stay  a  week,  —  a  week  of  the 
June  weather,  and  the  strawberries. 

"  It  would  do  Mr.  Chism  so  much  good  to  get  out  of  the 
town  awhile.  John  Eveleith  can  manage." 

John  Eveleith,  the  young  clerk  whom  Uncle  Roj-le  had  had 
from  a  boy,  had  managed,  all  through  his  illness.  Uncle  Royle 
talked  of  giving  him  a  partnership.  He  was  getting  old,  he 
said,  and  could  not  expect  to  hold  everything  in  his  own  hands 
much  longer. 

Richard  planned  it  all,  and  asked  us  just  as  he  would  have 
done  years  ago. 

He  had  kept  his  promise.  "  It  was  all  taken  back."  He 
wanted  us  to  go  and  come  as  we  had  done ;  that  the  old 
friendship  should  be  the  same. 

I  was  so  glad  that  he  did  ;  that  he  could  ;  I  thought  he  was 
getting  well  over  it  all ;  it  was  nearly  a  year  now.  I  thought 
he  had  had,  in  his  quiet  wa}r,  a  feeling  of  pleasant  useduess  to 
me,  a  fancy  that  we  could  "  get  along  "  and  be  comfortable 
together ;  a  gentle  liking  and  tenderness  for  me  out  of  the 
gentleness  of  his  nature,  —  a  nature  that  would  only  suffer 
quietly  and  be  gently  disappointed,  —  never  rise  to  storms  and 
spasms  of  passion  and  pain,  —  and  that  now,  after  these  last 
months  that  had  stretched  themselves  with  all  their  heavier 
burden  between,  he  turned  willingly  and  freely  to  the  old, 
simple  friendliness  that  he  needed,  and  we  might  go  back  into 
the  summer  time  together. 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  309 

It  comforted  me.  It  made  me  almost  contented  with  my 
life,  that  had  failed  to  enlarge  itself  to  my  hopes  and  dreams, 
but  that  held  yet  some  sweet  and  simple  reality. 

There  were  two  sides  of  me.  There  always  were.  With 
my  plain,  every-day  self,  I  could  take  much  comfort —  I  could 
rearly  be  satisfied  —  with  that  side  of  the  things  that  came  to 
me.  We  do  not,  any  of  us,  stay  always  wound  up  to  our 
highest,  or  hold  at  the  most  intense  and  painful  strain.  The 
spring  begins  to  relax  the  moment  the  key  has  taken  the  last 
turn.  Some  homely  comfort  comes  close  upon  —  in  the  very 
midst  of  —  the  sharpest  suffering.  And  I  had  not  deeply 
suffered,  except  from  self-blame.  I  had  only  come  near 
enough  a  joy  to  see  it,  and  to  see  that  it  was  not  mine.  It 
was  after  the  same  negative  fashion  that  all  the  pain  of  my 
life  had  been.  Things  were  withheld.  There  was  something 
in  me  that  managed  to  take  pleasure  in  such  things  as  I  had  : 
I  liked  the  tidiness  after  the  spring-cleaning  ;  the  cosiness  of 
afternoon  work ;  Lucretia's  exquisitely  fresh  and  nice  kitchen, 
and  the  sunshine  streaming  in,  when  I  went  there  after  the 
morning's  clearing  up,  to  beat  eggs  for  cakes  or  puddings  ; 
the  loud  readings  in  new  books  to  Uncle  Royle  ;  Aunt  Ildy's 
gruff  graciousness  and  strong  dependableness ;  the  feeling 
that,  in  my  way,  I  had  grown  to  be  somebody  at  last ;  the 
thought  of  June  days  at  the  Farm  again,  and  of  Hope's  sis- 
terly companionship  by  and  by. 

There  were  other  things  in  the  world ;  I  might  have  held  a 
far  greater  gladness  ;  but  a  piece  of  me  was  somehow  glad  to 
be  comfortable  in  these. 

It  was  not  as  though  I  had  begun  differently ;  I  had  been 
used  all  my  life  to  the  next  best ;  to  the  making-do ;  to  the 
dolls  with  eyes  that  would  not  shut,  and  the  seat  by  the  high 
window  with  the  half-lookout.  The  possibilities  that  had 
touched  me,  and  that  I  might  not  seize,  began  to  seem  far  off 
and  long  ago.  The  strange  thing  would  have  been  to  me  if 
the_y  had  really  become  mine. 

I  think  I  was  always  good  at  giving  up,  when  it  was  once 
hopeless  that  I  should  have.  Only  I  liked  to  go  quite  away 
from  that  which  had  been  denied  me  into  something  else. 


310  HITHERTO: 

I  was  very  glad  of  this  new  plan  of  Hope's. 

It  was  just  what  was  needed  in  the  cup  of  our  daily  living ; 
Miss  Chism  knew  it  as  well  as  anybody.  Something  sweet 
and  gracious  should  mix  itself  so,  with  what  else,  for  very 
strength  and  goodness,  might  be  harsh  and  acrid,  and  make  it 
a  real  deliciousness. 

Hope  was  always  cream  to  Aunt  Ildy's  coffee. 


A   STORY  OF   YESTEEDAYS.  311 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

WHAT   A  VOICE   TELLS. 
OF  THAT  WHICH  MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN. 

HOPE  DEVINE  had  begun  to  see  it  coming,  —  had  begun  to 
discern  what  this  might  lead  to,  —  this  staying  on  and  quiet 
comforting. 

She  did  not  care  what  people  said,  about  its  being  queer. 
She  knew  it  was  really  no  queerer  now  than  it  had  ever  been. 
She  would  not  even  have  cared,  perhaps,  if  they  had  said  — 
very  likely  some  of  them  did  say  —  that  "  Hope  Devine  knew 
pretty  well  what  she  was  about ;  it  was  easy  to  see  what  the 
upshot  of  all  that  would  have  to  be."  She  would  not  have 
cared  while  Richard  sorely  needed  her,  or  if  it  had  still  been 
the  best  for  him. 

But  when  she  saw  this  coming ;  this  that  she  did  see  with 
her  far-off,  sensitive  perception,  —  this  misapprehension  of 
himself  that  Richard  might  fall  into,  —  she  said  quickly,  in 
her  heart,  so  quickly  that  it  was  not  even  heroism,  —  "  No ! 
That  would  not  be  true.  That  must  not  ever  happen."  And 
then  she  began  to  think  about  going  away ;  and  she  said  to 
Miss  Chism,  that  day,  what  Anstiss  Dolbeare  has  told. 

It  was  June,  now;  they  would  be  coming  soon;  that  was 
the  best  safety  for  all. 

Hope  never  doubted,  with  her  loving  onsight,  that  what  she 
believed  to  be  the  truth  was  yet  to  come  to  pass.  I  think 
Hope  really  loved  the  truth,  —  whatever  she  could  "  see  clear," 
—  and  its  coming  to  pass  in  God's  gracious  order,  better  than ' 
any  wish  or  will  of  her  own.  No  wish  of  hers  could  ripen 
against  such  clear-seeing,  or  bear  the  bitter  fruit  of  selfish 
pain.  Not  any  more,  as  she  had  said,  than  she  could  take  to 


312  HITHERTO: 

herself  that  which  was  not  her  own.  She  was  not  heroic  in 
this  thing,  simply  because  she  was,  by  her  high,  pure  nature, 
so  far  above  heroism.  Truly,  they  who  lose  their  life  for 
His  sake,  shall  save  it. 

Richard  'Hathaway,  in  his  silent  fashion,  was  busy  with 
himself.  He  had  "  taken  back,"  grandly  and  generously,  that 
which  had  been  only  pain  and  surprise  to  Anstiss  Dolbeare ; 
though  he  took  back  with  it,  into  his  own  heart,  a  dead  hope, 
grown,  to  this  death  only,  out  of  all  the  years  of  his  life.  He 
meant  to  be  simple-friendly  again,  and  alwa^ys. 

She  was  coming,  this  bright  June  weather,  to  the  Farm 
once  more,  in  the  old  way. 

But  before  that,  he  began  to  feel  with  a  secret  restlessness, 
that  was  partly  self-distrust,  and  partly  a  longing  out  of  his 
home  and  heart  need,  that  there  was  something  which  perhaps 
he  had  better  do.  Something  that  would  be  fair  to  Hope ; 
something  in  which  an  honest,  tender  affection  for  her  mingled 
with  the  deep  love  for  his  dead  mother,  and  his  hallowing  of 
her  wishes  for  him  ;  something  that  should  give  to  his  loneli- 
ness a  life-long  comfort  and  peace. 

She  was  his  dear  little  friend,  always  ;  she  had  stood  by  him 
through  it  all.  Did  not  God  mean  it  for  them  both? 

Besides,  he  cared  for  in  his  manly,  gentle  consideration,  in 
Hope's  behalf,  that  which  she  disregarded,  for  his  sake,  on  her 
own. 

People  should  not  talk  about  Hope  Devine. 

And  this  was  all  the  home  she  had. 

It  was  beautifully  pleasant,  all  over  the  Farm,  and  in  the 
house.  The  fields  were  ploughed,  and  harrowed,  and  sown. 
The  slopes  of  the  farther  hill-plantings  were  crimped  in  fault- 
less brown  furrows.  The  young  grain  was  vivid  in  green 
light,  like  a  shining  robe, — like  nothing  but  the  robe  of  Hie 
that  shames  our  dead  weavings,  and  shows  us  how  the  Lord 
knows  how  to  clothe,  out  of  the  soul  itself  that  he  puts 
into  things ;  how  our  own  outgrowth  shall  clothe  us  by 
and  by. 

Every  leaf  was  clean  and  new ;  the  brook  was  glad  with  a 
new  gladness,  as  of  drops  that  had  never  been  there  before, 


A    STORY  OF    YKSTEKDAYS..  313 

yet  of  a  gathered  whole  that  knew  itself  the  same,  and  knew 
also  its  old,  beautiful  pathways. 

In  the  house,  was  New  England  summer  freshness.  Every 
valance,  and  tester,  and  flounce,  and  window-drapery  was 
white  and  fragrant  with  cleanliness.  Every  carpet  was  bright 
with  a  fresh  face.  Every  table  and  chair  was  polished  to  a 
smile.  It  was  pleasant  just  to. move  about  among  it  all,  and 
touch  the  spotlessness  with  the  ends  of  one's  fingers. 

It  was  pleasant  to  Hope,  who  had  managed  it  all ;  coming 
out  after  the  early  tea  to  the  great  doorstone  under  the  young, 
sweet,  breathing  shade. 

Richard  came  across  the  hall  with  his  weekly  newspaper  in 
his  hand,  that  he  had  brought  that  afternoon  from  the  office. 

Hope's  happy  face,  and  the  light  in  her  softly  stirred  hair, 
and  her  pretty  figure,  full,  even  in  repose,  of  the  same  spring- 
ing something  that  was  in  bough  and  leaf  and  breeze,  stopped 
him.  He  hardly  ever  went  by  Hope  without  some  word. 

She  turned  as  he  came  up. 

"  Busy  little  woman  !  "  he  said,  in  a  fond,  praising  way. 

"  Not  busy  now,  Richard.  It's  all  finished.  Just  as  —  it  al- 
ways was.  It  seems,  somehow,  as  if  she  was  in  the  summer 
pleasantness,  doesn't  it?" 

"Hope  —  you  have  never  let  her  go  !  You  have  kept  the 
feeling  of  her  near,  in  everything.  You  don't  know  ho^  I 
thank  you,  every  day.  With  all  my  heart,  Hope  !  " 

"  I  am  glad  I  stayed.     It  will  begin  to  be  easier  now." 

It  was  the  first  time  Hope  had  ever  alluded  to  any  question 
of  her  staying.  If  there  had  been  a  question  at  the  beginning, 
she  could  not  have  remained. 

For  this  reason,  it  startled  Richard  now. 

He  laid  his  paper  down  upon  the  hall-chair  by  the  door,  and 
came  out,  nearer  to  her ;  came  and  stood  at  her  side. 

Something  very  earnest  looked  out  of  his  true,  kind  eyes. 

"  Hope,"  he  said,  "  you  will  have  to  stay  here  always.  I 
cannot  do  without  you.  I  want  —  I  wish  —  "• 

"  Richard,"  interrupted  Hope,  with  her  quickest  word  and 
smile,  and  her  simple  rippling  monosyllables,  —  "you  want 
me  to  do  just  right.  I  can't  stay  here  all  the  time,  you  know. 


314  HITHERTO: 

I  couldn't  go,  and  leave  you  then;  but  now  —  I  must  go  soon, 
Richard  ;  but  I  shan't  go  far ;  and  I  shall  come  and  see  you, 
and  stay  and  help  sometimes.  Don't  say  one  word,  Richard, 
please;  it  must  be;  I  know  it  ought,  and  my  word's 
given." 

"What  word?  "Who  could  there  be?  "Where  was  Hope 
going?  The  suddenness,  and  the  puzzle  of  it,  stopped  Avhat 
he  might  have  said  at  the  moment,  and  when  he  began  :  — 

"  Hope,  I  can't  see.  I  don't  understand.  I  meant  to  ask 
you,  Hope  —  " 

Hope  interrupted  again.  She  was  like  a  little  breeze  of 
pure,  bright  air  that  came  and  blew  away  his  words  before  he 
could  get  them  ranged  in  a  sentence. 

"  It's  an  ought,  Richard.  It  will  be  best  that  I  should  go 
away.  Your  life  will  come  all  right,  —  righter  than  if —  any- 
body —  stayed  and  did  too  much,  you  see.  You  are  so  true, 
Richard  ;  you  have  always  kept  one  thought  so,  for  so  long ; 
you  have  never  let  anything  come  between,  and  you  never 
will ;  you  have  such  a  steadfast  heart ;  it  is  so  right  that  it 
should  come  to  be  for  you,  Richard,  that  it  will.  I  feel  sure 
it  will.  And  then,  I  shall  be  so  glad  all  my  life,  that  I  did 
not  let  any  little  help  of  mine,  that  you  might  have  leaned 
on  more  or  longer  than  you  meant,  come  in  the  way.  And 
now,  let  me  tell  you  what  my  plan  is.  I  am  going  to  Mi^s 
Chism.  She  wants  me.  Mr.  Royle  is  getting  old  ;  and  Miss 
Ildy  isn't  young,  or  so  strong,  I  think,  as  she  was.  And  I 
think  —  when  once  I  am  there  —  it  will  begin  to  come  all 
right,  for  cver3Tbody.  It  seems  to  me  I  can  see  just  what  God 
means  by  it.  Why,  Richard,  sometimes  he  does  lead  us,  just 
a  little  way,  in  a  path  we  can  see  on  in ;  or  he  puts  some 
new  light  in  our  eyes  for  a  while,  and  then  we  have  part  of 
his  own  joy,  helping  to  bring  his  work  to  pass.  I  have 
looked  and  looked  at  it ;  and  I  see  it  clear.  I  think  I  do." 

Richard  could  no  more  have  gone  on  with  what  he  had  be- 
gun to  say,  than  if  it  had  been  an  angel  from  heaven,  instead 
of  a  mortal  woman,  who  stood  there  by  his  side.  It  seemed 
almost  as  if  she  did  come  to  him,  with  the  very  word  of  the 
Lord,  as  the  angels  caine  in  visions  of  old.  And  with  what 


A    STOnY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  315 

she  said,  —  with  her  bright,  sure  prophecy  of  what  was  to  be 
for  him,  —  something  stirred  so  in  his  own  heart,  something 
so  sprang  to  meet  the  hope  she  gave,  that  he  knew  not  only 
that  all  was  not  dead,  but  that  nothing  of  it  could  ever  die  ; 
that  in  his  soul  he  was  true,  as  Hope  said  ;  steadfast  to  the 
old  thought  and  the  one  love  ;  and  that  it  would  have  been  a 
mistake  and  a  wrong  if  he  had  said  the  words  she  stopped 
upon  his  lips. 

They  stood  there,  man  and  woman,  at  the  threshold  of  a 
life  that  might  have  been ;  tenderness,  each  for  the  other,  in 
their  hearts  ;  comfort  that  each  could  give,  waiting  ;  a  feeling 
of  need  and  longing,  real  and  conscious  to  them  both  ;  }Tet 
truth  stronger  than  anything ;  patience  for  God's  way  and 
time  chosen  in  the  stead  of  their  own  impulsive  and  precipi- 
tate will.  And  Hope  —  the  woman  —  to  whom  the  gift 
came  —  did  this,  and  put  the  gift  away  ;  put  it  away  without 
ever  looking  at  it,  so  that  in  after  time  she  might  have  had 
any  blessed  moment  to  think  of,  of  which  she  could  have  said, 
Then  it  was  mine.  She  had  never  looked  at  this  thing,  that 
she  might  have  desired,  long  enouglP  to  be  tempted.  From 
the  beginning  it  had  been  decided  away  from  her.  It  belonged 
to  some  one  else. 

So  she  should  go  her  way,  unscathed  ;  her  eyes  still  touched 
with  the  clear,  glad  light ;  her  hand  in  God's. 

It  was  a  deep,  beautiful,  holy  moment  to  them  both,  —  a 
moment  they  would  remember  all  their  earthly  lives,  and  that 
should  come  back  to  them  in  the  time  beyond,  when  all  things 
shall  come  back  and  be  present,  except  repented  and  forgiven 
sin. 

They  sat  down,  together,  there  on  the  great  door-stone. 
In  the  June  sunset,  under  the  sweet,  swinging  boughs.  They 
sat  there  silently,  with  thoughts  in  their  hearts  that  were  like 
prayers.  The  evening  star  came  out  in  the  midst  of  the 
western  glory,  and  glimmered  high  up  through  the  delicate 
fretwork  the  young  boughs  made  against  the  sky. 

Hope  knew  there  was  no  danger ;  that  there  never  would 
be,  any  more ;  that  God  had  given  her  a  better  thing  than 
love  to  keep,  —  a  love  to  give  away. 


316  HITHERTO: 

Richard  Hathaway  felt  himself  near  all  blessed  and  benefi- 
cent presences,  in  the  presence  of  that  woman-friend  beside 
him.  The  Father's  care,  —  his  great,  rich  meanings  for  him,  — 
the  wide  To-Be,  in  which  all  waited  ;  the  gentle  .pulse  of  the 
invisible  mother-love,  beating  near  him  in  the  all-holding  pence 
and  promise  ;  the  steadfast  truth  that  was  in  him,  that  had 
been  saved  to  him,  clear  and  clean,  to  live  on  and  claim  the 
answer  and  accord  that  are  surely  somewhere  for  all  steadfast- 
ness and  truth ;  —  an  unspeakable  fulness  of  all  these  lifted 
and  enlarged  his  consciousness  into  a  grandeur  and  a  blessed- 
ness he  could  not  have  told  of ;  that  only  overswept  him  and 
held  him  there,  under  the  summer-evening  heaven,  and  at 
Hope's  side. 

They  staj^ed  there,  sa}Ting  not  one  other  word ;  until  the 
beautiful  planet  shone  all  golden  from  a  sea  of  blue,  —  the  sun- 
set splendor  gathered  slowly,  as  it  were,  into  its  one  point  of 
changeless  light,  —  and  down  upon  the  earth  had  fallen  the  ten- 
der gloom  that  is  like  the  shadow  of  a  shielding  Hand  ;  until  the 
few  still  sounds  were  stiller  yet,  and  the  violet  perfume  came 
up  richer  through  the  evening  dew,  and  a  cooler  breath  began 
to  search  the  green  tree-chambers. 

Then  Richard  got  up  and  held  out  his  hand  to  Hope,  taking 
hers  with  a  strong,  fervent  grasp. 

"  I  thank  you,  Hope,"  he  said,  "  for  one  of  the  best  hours 
of  all  my  life." 

And  Hope  was  thanked. 

Away  back  in  the  house,  moving  to  and  fro  between  tea- 
room and  pantry  and  kitchen,  Martha  had  caught  glimpses  of 
the  two  sitting  out  there  together. 

"  That  aint  no  millstone,"  she  said,  with  three  or  four 
measured,  decided  nods  of  her  head.  "  There  aint  no  credit 
in  seein'  through  that.  But  ef  ther  was,  I  done  it,  I  guess, 
pretty  much,  even,  afore  they  did.  They  can't  come  tellin'  me 
any  o'  their  news." 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  317 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

OtTT   AT    THE    LEDGES. 

IT  led  to  my  being  back  and  forth  at  the  Farm  again,  as  of 
old. 

Richard  was  so  quiet  and  so  kind.  It  was  not  as  if  he  had 
looked  pained  and  sad,  or  had  been  constrained  with  me.  It 
did  not  seem  a  hard  thing  for  him  to  have  us  there.  It  was 
just  the  old,  plain,  cordial  way  ;  it  did  him  good,  he  told  Aunt 
Ildy,  to  have  people  in  the  house  again. 

He  liked  home  pleasantness  so.  That  was  it.  I  thought 
that  if  any  other  woman  had  come  in  his  way  just  as  I  did,  it 
would  have  been  the  same.  That  it  would  be  the  same  again, 
with  somebody  else  ;. perhaps  with  Hope. 

Hope  came  home  with  us  after  that  June  visit.  Uncle 
Royle  was  better,  and  was  busy  in  his  shop  again.  But  he 
took  more  relaxation,  and  this  summer  he  bought  a  horse  and 
a  light  wagon,  and  nearl}-  eveiy  pleasant  day  he  took  a  drive. 
Very  often  it  was  out  to  the  Farm  ;  and  so  some  of  us  came 
to  be  there  at  least  two  or  three  times  a  week,  always. 

Now  that  I  was  left  to  n^'self,  and  something  of  peace  had 
come  back  to  me,  seeing  that  apparently,  according  to  Aunt 
Ildy's  word,  the  chance  was  already  more  than  even  that 
"  they  would  both  get  over  it,"  —  I  began  to  feel  how  great  a 
part  of  my  life  would  have  gone  from  me  if  that  intercourse 
with  the  Farm  had  ceased.  How  Richard  Hathaway  held 
some  certain  place  with  me,  that  I  could  never  spare  him  from  ; 
that  he  answered,  as  he  had  done  during  my  childhood,  one 
great  need  for  me  ;  he  gave  me  simple  rest,  —  the  rest  of  per- 
fect reliance. 

Sometimes  I  thought  if  I  onhr  could  have  given  him  a  little 
more,  when  he  asked  it,  what  a  sure,  peaceful,  tenderly-cared- 


318  HITHERTO: 

for  life  mine  would  have  been  to  its  very  end,  with  him.  How 
happy  some  other  woman,  just  a  little  different  from  me,  could 
be  at  Broadfields. 

And  then  I  wondered,  whether,  in  such  case,  the  old  friend- 
ship would  still  be  there  for  me.  It  is  hard  for  a  woman,  — 
and  from  the  way  of  the  world  such  alternative  not  sel- 
dom comes  to  her,  —  when  she  must  either  marry  or  lose  a 
man ;  take  him  for  a  husband,  or  lose  him  for  a  friend,  practi- 
cally ;  losing  all  the  near  opportunities  of  friendship. 

If  it  were  Hope,  —  but  what  if  it  should  not  be  she  ?  What 
if  some  stranger  were  to  come  there  all  at  once,  caring  for 
none  of  us?  I  thought  I  should  be  jealous  of  such  a  love 
as  that  in  Richard.  Jealous  with  that  quiet,  wonted  home 
side  of  my  heart,  as  I  had  been  with  the  more  restless,  asking 
part  of  me,  of  Augusta  Hare. 

I  think  I  understood  myself  less  and  less  in  those  days. 
It  seemed  as  if  there  were  capacity  in  me  for  two  separate, 
utterly  distinct  and  different  lives  ;  that  I  might  live  either, 
if  the  other  were  never  touched  or  awakened  ;  but  what  was  I 
to  do  between  thcmbqth?  Between  the- .two  sides  of  me  that 
could  not  be  both  lived  out  ? 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grandon  Cope  were  at  home'  for  a  little  while 
in  the  early  summer ;  then  they  went  away  to  the  White 
Mountains,  and  to  Niagara.  Whenever  I  saw  Augusta,  she 
was  as  kind  as  ever  ;  but  the  indescribable  change  of  marriage 
had  come  over  her  ;  she  was  Mrs.  Grandon  Cope.  Her  life  — 
their  lives — taking  up  their  own,  had  left  me  out,  as  it  were, 
and  further  off.  Safer,  so ;  I  was  not  near  enough  to  be 
troubled  ;  it  had  only  been  when  I  stood,  for  a  little,  close 
upon  some  beautiful,  vague  possibilities,  that  might  gather 
to  vital  certaint3r,  and  make  my  world,  that  I  had  been  in  the 
chaotic  pain.  The  certainty  had  gathered  itself,  and  it  was 
not  mine  ;  it  rolled  away  upon  its  own  bright  orbit  that  seldom 
intersected  mine,  and  left  me  to  a  kind  of  uncreated  stillness 
for  a  time  ;  the  elements  of  my  fate  yet  waited. 

I  never  cried  for  far-off  and  impossible  things ;  I  reacted 
quickly  from  all  acute  disappointment,  as  far  at  least  as  a 
passive  dreariness.  Because  I  was  capable  of  too  keen  suf- 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  319 

fering,  if  once  I  let  myself  begin  to  suffer.  I  wondered,  in 
those  days,  how  people  gave  themselves  up  to  pain  and  grief; 
it  seemed  to  me  it  could  be  only  in  the  shallows  of  misery ;  in 
the  deep  sea,  one  must  either  sink  or  swim. 

Aunt  Ildy  had  a  quilt  to  be  made ;  she  had  saved  some 
woollen  strips,  too,  for  braided  mats  ;  that  took  us  all  out  one 
day  to  the  Polisher  girlses. 

It  was  August  now ;  it  was  sultry  and  close  in  the  town  ; 
out  here,  in  this  wide,  rolling  sea  of  green,  among  these  little 
hills  like  softly  rounded  waves  fixed  at  their  most  beautiful 
heaving,  there  was  a  wider  breath  and  a  wonderful  sweet- 
ness. The  dry,  perfumy  air,  full  of  the  woods  and  pastures ; 
the  notes  of  birds,  not  crowded  into  a  single  orchard, 
hemmed  about  with  highways  and  human  noise,  but  answering 
each  other  from  green,  distant  depths  that  seemed  infinite 
every  way ;  the  high  sun  in  a  great,  pure  sky  that  you  could 
see  from  level  rim  to  rim  of  the  far-reaching  woodland  undu- 
lations, —  it  was  as  lovely,  and  as  different  from  all  else,  as 
ever. 

I  had  thought  of  the  Polisher  girls  and  their  home,  instinct- 
ively, last  year,  when  I  felt  as  if  I  wanted  a  place  to  run  to. 

I  had  never  forgotten  the  peculiar  outstretch  and  relief  of 
that  still,  wide,  verdant  horizon,  or  the  quaint,  homely  charm 
of  the  old  house.  It  was  more  than  a  change  of  place  and 
outlook  to  come  there;  it  was  going  back  in  time;  taking 
refuge  in  a  generation  passed  away  into  its  peace  ;  getting 
behind  one's  self  and  one's  perplexities,  into  the  years  when 
they  were  not  born. 

UI  wish  I  could  stay  here  a  week !"  I  exclaimed,  impul- 
sively, standing  with  Aunt  Ildy  on  the  threshold. 

"  You  can  as  well  as  not,"  said  Lodemy  Polisher,  with 
blithe  alacrity.  "  Why  won't  you,  now  ?  " 

"  Anstiss  Dolbeare ! "  said  my  aunt,  with  two-syllabled 
awfulness.  "  That  is  just  like  3*011 !  I  am  amazed  !  " 

She  was  so  awful,  that  her  little  inconsistency  escaped  her 
own  notice. 

"I  did  not  mean  to  invite  myself,"  I  answered.  "I  only 
meant  how  very,  very  pleasant  it  was." 


320  HITHERTO  : 

"  "Why  didn't  you  just  say,  then,"  said  Miss  Clrism,  with 
grand  monotonous  deliberation,  "  how  very,  veiy  pleasant  it 
was?  Only  other  folks  can  see  it,  without  your  telling." 

Miss  Chism  was  all  Chisin  when  the  proprieties  were  in- 
vaded. Little,  easy,  social  freedoms  were  what  she  could  not 
tolerate. 

Nevertheless,  it  came  to  our  spending  a  da}^  there,  a  week 
or  two  later ;  a  long  August  day,  that  ended  —  I  shall  put 
down  in  its  place  how  it  ended  ;  the  beginning  and  the  going 
on  are  very  pleasant  to  remember ;  and  how  good  it  is  that 
both  ends  of  a  day,  or  a  year,  never  do  come  together ;  no, 
nor  both  ends,  nor  any  confusing,  counteracting  points  of  a 
lifetime ! 

Richard  Hathaway  brought  us  the  invitation.  One  of  the 
Polisher  girls  had  been  over,  to  bring  Martha  a  basket  of  such 
huckleberries  as  came*from  nowhere  but  the  wild  pastures 
back  of  their  little  farmstead,  among  the  green  billows  of  that 
beautiful,  solitary  country-side. 

"  As  big  as  green  grapes,  every  one  of  'em,"  Lodemy  said  ; 
not  specifying  at  what  stage  of  the  grape  growth,  but  probably 
the  contemporary.  Black  and  shining  with  rich,  distending 
juice  ;  firm  and  perfect ;  it  was  such  a  pleasure  to  plunge  one's 
hand  deep  into  the  full  basket,  and  to  eat  them  out  of  one's 
palm  ;  new  wine  of  the  summer,  in  new  skins,  —  fern-flavored, 
aromatic,  —  one  swallowed  from  their  sweet,  crushed  globe*. 

Lodemy,  and  all  of  them,  wanted  us,  —  Hope  and  me,  —  to 
come  out  and  spend  the  da}^  and  gather  for  ourselves,  to  bring 
home  ;  and  the  quilt,  also,  would  be  ready.  Next  Thursday, 
would  we  ?  Come  bright  and  early,  and  do  our  picking  before 
the  sun  got  hot. 

What  a  way  we  have  of  saying  that,  as  if  the  great  Glory 
gathered  radiance  and  intensity  as  we  wheel  our  little  merid- 
ian toward  him !  Even  so  we  talk  also  of  the  Love  that 
waits  and  burns  in  heaven  for  our  slow 'turning ! 

Aunt  Ildy  would  be  glad  of  the  berries  ;  we  were  glad  of  the 
picking.  So  we  had  the  horse  and  wagon,  and  drove  our- 
selves over,  on  the  Thursday,  stopping  at  the  Farm  T>vit1i  a 
message  for  Martha,  and  getting  a  pleasant  word  with  Rich- 


A    STOUT   OF    YESTZnn.lYS.  321 

ard,  standing  in  his  white  shirt-sleeves  by  the  gate.  lie  walked 
up  from  his  meadow-haying  when  he  saw  ns  coining  round  the 
bend,  and  brought  in  his  hand  a  bunch  of  splendid  scarlet 
cardinals. 

They  were  as  becoming  to  him  as 'they  could  be  to  a  woman, 
as  he  stood  there  in  his  fresh  white  linen,  —  somehow  Rich- 
ard Hathaway  had  a  marvellous  way  of  keeping  himself  un- 
spotted, even  in  his  homeliest  labors,  —  his  hands  crossed, 
as  he  rested  his  arms  lightly  on  the  gate-rail,  the  long, 
brilliant,  plumy  spikes  slanting  across  his  sleeve,  his  brown, 
handsome  face  with  the  summer  glow  in  it,  and  the  dark  hair 
all  in  a  summer  toss  about  his  temples  under  the  deep-brimmed 
straw  hat. 

He  gave-  the  flowers  to  me,  when  we  started  on  again. 
Richard  always  had  a  way  of  bringing  flowers  to  me,  —  he  had 
it  with  his  mother,  too,  —  flowers  of  the  first  finding;  violets, 
or  roses,  or  the  midsummer  magnificence  of  these.  They  came 
with  a  quiet  little  tenderness  about  them,  as  of  a  thought  had 
of  us  in  the  still,  pleasant  places  where  he  met  their  beauti- 
ful surprise.  It  was  one  of  the  things  that  touched  me  very 
much  in  the  ways  of  Richard  Hathaway  ;  it  touched  me  more 
now,  that  he  had  not  changed  or  forgotten  it  with  me,  for  all 
that  had  come  and  gone.  It  is  so  good  to  have  a  friend  in  the 
world. 

It  was  eight  o'clock  when  we  reached  the  Polisher  girlses. 
Already  there  was  hardly  a  breath  in  the  still,  sultry  air. 
There  had  been  this  still,  intense  weather,  —  not  a  drop  of 
rain  falling,  only  the  heavy  night-dews  keeping  things  alive, 
—  for  two  or  three  weeks.  The  wayside  shrubs  were  dust}' ; 
the  brooks  ran  low  in  their  pebbly  channels  ;  out  there,  though, 
was  the  same  green  depth,  sheltered  in  its  own  close  growth, 
and  fed  by  unseen,  numberless  springs.  Up  on  the  slopes, 
against  the  southerly  sun,  stood  the  high-huckleberry-bashes 
and  the  tall  sweet-ferns,  crowding  the  short,  crisp  swards. 

Miss  Remember  stood  in  the  door-way,  in  a  thin,  old- 
fashioned  lawn  gown,  with  a  pattern  of  slender,  long- 
branched,  briery  vines  running  widely  over  it :  cool  and  soft 
with  many  summers'  wear.  Miss  .Submit  looked  over  her 

21 


322  HITHERTO: 

shoulder  in  a  fine-striped  lilac  gingham ;  and  Demie  and 
Frasie  came  hastening  from  the  back  door,  Avhere —  on  their 
dear,  beautiful  stoop,  doubtless  —  they  had  been  shelling 
beans,  less  imaginary,  for  dinner. 

Demie's  calico  had  little  brown  thistles  on  it,  and  Frasie's 
pale  pink  pinks.  They  were  made  with  loose  front  breadths, 
in  a  fashion  of  ever  so  long  ago,  with  bishop's  sleeves,  and 
were  tied  round  the  waist  with  strings  of  the  same,  fastened 
in  bow-knots  in  front.  Frasie's  had  three  more  bows  at  long 
intervals  down  before,  tying  the  open  gown  together  over  a 
•white  dimity  petticoat.  These  two  alwaj-s  dressed  a  little 
younger  than  the  others,  and  Frasie  was  the  most  "  tasty," 
they  all  acknowledged,  of  the  four.  So  she  had  prescriptive 
right  to  the  three  little  extra  calico  bows. 

All  their  robes  were  worn  to  delicate  thinness  with  age  and 
much  care  and  many  foldings  ;  such  things,  when  you  do  see 
them  nowadays,  come  out  with  a  more  especial  fitness  and 
reminding ;  they  have  seen  so  much  just  such  hot  weather 
before  ;  they  have  been  consecrated  to  it,  and  used  for  nothing 
else.  They  are  like  flags  on  the  Fourth  of  July  ;  they  are  put 
on  with  a  touch  and  appropriation  of  personal  importance, 
in  the  observance  of  this  grand  achieving  and  climax  of  the 
year.  People  are  alwaj's  a  little  proud,  somehow,  of  very  hot 
weather.  One's  planet — one's  own  part  of  it,  at  least  —  is 
doing  her  utmost. 

We  went  out  with  Lodemy  and  Frasie  to  the  little  green. 
They  gave  us  low,  splint-bottomed  chairs,  out  on  the  grass, 
and  Hope  and  I  fell  to  work  with  them  at  finishing  the  bean- 
podding. 

"  Ifc  is  so  nice  out  here,"  said  Hope. 

She  remembered  all  the  fancies  that  had  grown  so  real  to 
them,  and  she  commended  in  her  words  the  whole  pleasant- 
ness they  sat  in,  that  they  had  builded  round  them.  It  was 
there,  to  her,  as  much  as  to  them.  Hope  did  not  wait,  any 
more  than  they,  for  carpenter's  work. 

It  was  nice,  however,  presently  and  positively.  For  myself 
I  hardly  knew  what  they  wanted  the  stoop  for.  The  green- 
sward was  lovely,  and  the  sun  got  round  away  from  it  early 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  323 

in  the  day,  and  you  could  sit  there  looking  off  into  the  bosom 
of  pine  shadows,  and  from  brow  to  brow  of  the  gently  rising 
and  dipping  land. 

"  I  most  wish  we'd  had  flat  trellises  instead  of  round  posts," 
said  Frasie.  "  But  we  can't  alter  'em  now,  and  they  don't 
take  up  much  room." 

They  certainly  did  not ;  though  the  "girls"  had  planted 
actual  morning  glories  and  Madeira  vines  in  round  plats  just 
where  the  porch  outline  and  the  supporte  would  have  been. 
These  climbed  up  rough  poles,  set  for  them  as  for  garden 
vines  ;  and  from  the  tops  were  drawn  some  strings  and  wires 
up  to  the  chamber  windows. 

"  I  wasn't  going  to  have  folks  walking  right  straight  though 
our  columes,  at  any  rate,  as  if  they  were  ghosts,"  said  Lo- 
demy.  "  I  couldn't  stand  that,  it  nettled  me  so." 

"  'Member  says  it's  clear  nonsense ;  she  thinks  we're  two 
great  babies  ;  and  we  don't  tell  her  half,"  said  Frasie. 

"Babies  never  do,"  said  Hope.  Hope  had  great  faith  in 
what  babies  might  tell  if  they  would. 

"  We  couldn't  if  we  triedt"  said  Lodemy.  "  We  can't  tell 
half  to  ourselves.  Clear  nonsense  is  a  great  plenty.  There's 
nothing  to  stop  you,  you  know." 

"  Why,  clear  non-sense  is  a  beautiful  thing ! "  exclaimed 
Hope.  "  I've  just  noticed  what  it  really  means.  Clear  non- 
sense is  just  what  heaven  is  made  of! " 

"  Frasie  would  have  grape-vines  on  this  west  side,"  said 
Lodemy ;  "  but  they  keep  out  the  sunset.  Grape-vines  grow  so 
all-over,  in  ten  years,  you  see.  And  it's  ten  years  and  more, 
since  we  first  planned  it  out." 

Now  there  was  no  grape-vine  on  the  west'  side,  only  an  old 
settee,  on  which  Lodemy  and  Frasie  Avere  now  sitting,  with 
their  heels  upon  the  rung,  and  their  tin  pans  in  their  laps. 
This,  however,  kept  people  from  "  walking  through,"  and 
defined  their  idea. 

"  I  should  trim  it  away,"  said  Hope.  "  I  should  cut  out  a 
great,  wide,  arched  window,  and  let  the  sunset  in." 

"  Why,  yes,  indeed  !  "  cried  Frasie.  "  Why  ever  didn't  you 
think  of  that,  Lodemy,  instead  of  always  blaming  me?" 


324  HITHERTO:    • 

"Well,  there  now!  Sure  enough!  So  I  will!"  And 
Loderny  Polisher  did  half  spring  off  her  seat,  and  spill  over  her 
beans  into  the  grass,  as  if  she  were  going  instantty  for  shears. 
She  sat  down  again,  however,  and  shelled  away  in  a  very  busy 
silence,  during  which  I  could  almost  hear  the  clip  of  the 
blades,  so  sure  was  f  that  .the  grape-branches  were  coming 
down,  —  in  that  "  clear  nonsense"  realm  where  these  Polisher 
girls  wrought  out  so  much. 

"  I  do  wish  'Member  would  have  tea  out  here  to-night. 
When  she  and  Mittie  are  away,  Frasie  and  I  always  do.  But 
that's  hardly  ever  moi'e  than  once  a  month,  you  see,  —  sewing- 
meeting  days  ;  and  that  only  makes  three  or  four  chances  in  a 
summer." 

That  was  the  first  thing  Lodemy  said,  after  her  silence. 
Plainly,  she  wanted  to  try  how  the  sunset  would  seem,  now 
that  it  was  let  in.  I  suppose  she  had  ignored  its  beauty,  from 
this  place,  consistently  and  conscientiously,  for  years.  Now, 
she  could  fairly  look  it  in  the  glorious  face  again. 

Submit  came  out,  just  as  we  were  gathering  up  the  last 
stray  bean-pods  into  the  pan. 

"  'Member  says  we  ought  to  be  going,"  she  said. 

Submit  always  played  second  part  to  Remember,  all  through 
the  family  econou.^.  How  they  ever  missed  her  appropriate 
diminutive,  and  came  to  use  the  second  syllable  of  her  name 
ins  Lead,  occurred  to  puzzle  me  already.  From  this  day  forth, 
she  was  always  "•  Sub"  to  me,  and  I  found  it  a  difficult  delib- 
eration to  put  the  "  Miss"  and  the  "  mit  "  at  either  end  when 
I  spoke  to  her. 

"  And  she  wants  to  know  if  you've  got  barks  enough?  "  she 
added.  * 

Lodemy  answered  by  going  to  a  deep  drawer  in  a  high 
mahogany  chest,  resplendent  with  many  pendent  brass  han- 
dles, which  filled  up  one  end  of  the  narrow  room  that  opened 
upon  the  "  stoop,"  and  producing  thence,  one  after  another, 
five  "  barks  "  and  a  little  deep,  long-handled  basket.  The 
barks  were  quart  measures,  made  of  white  birch,  neatly 
sewed  into  the  ordinary  shape,  and  provided  with  loops  at 
the  top,  through  which  a  string  was  passed,  to  tie  it  round 


A    STORY    OF    YESTERDAYS.  325 

the  waist  in  picking,  tjjat  both  hands  might  be  left  free  for  the 
bushes.  Each  sister  had  her  own  particular  bark,  and  there 
was  one  over  for  company.  Lodemy  lent  me  hers,  and  took 
the  little  basket. 

Two  large  peck-baskets,  which  we  were  to  bring  home  full, 
completed  the  equipment.  The  uniform  of  the  party  con- 
sisted of  sun-bonnets, —  calico  tunnels,  framed  on  stiff  strips  of 
pasteboard  of  precisely  equal  width,  and  capable  of  being 
folded  flat,  to  put  away,  or  of  having  their  bones  drawn,  for 
the  washing  and  starching  process.  There  were  plenty  of 
these,  for  they  alwaj^s  made  one  when  they  had  a  remnant  of 
calico  of  the  right  size  ;  they  were  "  so  handy."  Into  their 
farther  ends  we  dropped  our  heads  ;  after  which  we  could  only 
look  at  each  other  by  carefully  bringing  two  cylinders  in  line, 
and  waiting  a  second  or  so  to  accustom  our  eyes  to  the  depth, 
and  then  presently,  a  face  could  be  discerned,  exactly  fitted 
in,  at  the  bottom  of  either.  The  advantage  was  that  the  all- 
seeing  sun  himself  could  no  more  easily  get  at  us,  —  hence, 
"  sun-bonnets."  We  saw  Nature  in  scraps  ;  like  a  great  pic- 
ture looked  at  piecemeal  through  a  tin  tube  ;  which  of  course 
brought  out  and  intensified  what  we  did  look  at,  very  much 
indeed. 

Oh,  how  sweet  it  was  among  the  huckleberry-bushes  !  How 
the  ferns  sent  up  their  spiciness  from  under  our  feet  and 
against  our  garments,  as  we  pressed  through  them  !  And  how 
dry  the  mossy  turf  was,  and  warm  with  the  long-lying  sun ! 
How  the  rich  black  globes  rolled  from  our  fingers'  ends,  at  the 
merest  touch,  into  our  suspended  barks !  There  would  be  no 
need  of  stemming  afterwards  ;  we  kept  them  clean  as  we  went 
along. 

Remember  picked  severely ;  never  eating  one.  That  was  the 
way  she  went  through  her  life,  laying  up  all  her  joy  for  a  pie 
that  was  to  be  baked  by  and  by.  Submit  did  as  she  did ; 
Lodemy  and  Frasie  took  a  little  of  theirs  as  they  went  along. 
So  did  Hope.  She  ate  more,  and  gathered  more,  than  any  of 
us.  She  kept  time  with  Mittie  and  'Member  in  pouring  into 
the  big  basket ;  bark  for  bark  she  brought  in  ;  yet  her  pretty 
lips  were  all  purple-stained  with  their  sweet  present  pleasure. 


326  HITHERTO: 

I  worked  in  company  with  the  younger  Polisher  girls ;  we 
did  not  fill  up  so  quickly.  I  could  not  keep  still  and  satisfied 
enough  ;  it  was  too  often  "  over  there  "  with  me  ;  I  lost  time 
in  struggling  from  bush  to  bush.  Hope  always  found  a  good 
place,  and  alwaj-s  got  all  there  was  ;  she  was  never  in  a  hurry 
to  look  for  more  ;  she  had  scarcely  shifted  her  position  three 
yards  since  she  began.  She  kept  more  cool  and  comfortable 
than  we  did  too ;  she  found  little  sitting  and  kneeling  places 
under  the  high,  loaded  bushes,  and  just  coaxed  down,  with 
easy  touches,  her  fingers  playing  all  about  among  the  stems, 
the  ready  fruit  into  her  bark. 

"  How  could  I  help  it?  It  was  all  right  there,"  she  would 
say,  when  we  wondered  at  her  full  measure. 

I  read  lessons,  that  day, —  out  in  the  sweet-smelling  pasture, 
—  lessons  over  again  that  I  had  read  before. 

It  grew  stiller  and  stiller.  There  was  a  dim,  hot  haze  in  the 
sky.  The  sun  climbed  up,  and  up,  and  the  earth  lay  breath- 
less under  his  glory. 

We  kept  in  the  edge  of  the  pasture,  near  the  black-green 
shade  of  the  pines.  A  little  spring  trickled  patiently  just 
within  our  hearing. 

"  That  is  exactly  behind  my  house,"  whispered  Frasie,  fur- 
tively. ".It  never  fails.  It's  living  water.  My  dairy's 
there  ;  and  I've  a  cream-colored  cow  that  gives  fifteen  quarts 
of  milk." 

"  There's  a  little  brook  runs  down  by  my  garden,"  said 
Loderny.  "And  there  are  lilies  and  water-cresses." 

"  We  shall  have  thunder  this  afternoon,"  said  'Member, 
coming  over  to  us.  "  See  those  brassy  heads,  low  down  in 
the  south.  When  the  wind  comes,  they'll  blow  up.  Then 
the  air'll  be  cooler." 

"  It's  awful  now,"  said  Lodemy ;  and  she  pushed  back  her 
sun-bonnet,  and  showed  a  face  that,  as  to  the  mouth,  was 
violet-black  with  huckleberry-juice,  and  as  to  the  rest  was 
royal  purple. 

"  Lodemy  Polisher !  "  cried  'Member.  "  You  set  right  still 
where  you  are,  and  don't  stir  another-  inch  till  you  cool  off! 
You'll  have  arrysippleous  just  as  true  as  you're  a  born  child  I" 


A    STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  327 

Then  she  went  round  from  one  to  another,  making  observa- 
tions down  each  calico  well,  finding  the  truth  at  the  bottom, 
in  various  shades  of  illustration,  that  it  was  growing  far  too 
hot  to  pick  huckleberries  any  longer. 

"  Set  down  and  rest,  every  one  of  you,"  she  commanded  ; 
and  Submit  went  down  instantly,  just  where  she  was,  in  a  flat, 
sunny  space,  full  in  the  broil. 

"  Back  here,  Mittie,  under  the  trees  !  Are  you  crazed  and 
possessed?"  cried  Kemember,  marshalling  and  ordering  as 
she  might  have  done  when  they  went  huckleberrying  fifty 
years  before,  and  the  younger  ones  obeying  ;  till  she  got  us  all 
into  the  shade,  where  we  leaned  ourselves  upon  the  turfy 
knolls  that  curved  themselves  for.  luxurious  rest  all  up  the 
easy  slope,  and  listened  to  the  hot,  shrill  whirr  of  the  locust, 
and  the  cool  little  drip  of  the  spring. 

We  took  little  naps  there,  every  one  of  us  ;  not  all  at  once, 
or  confessedly  ;  but  between  times  ;  each  one  in  turn  waking 
up  enough  to  speak,  and  to  keep  up  the  general  pretence  of 
consciousness  by  a  lazy  straggle  of  talk.  Then,  after  a  while, 
Lodemy's  face  having  subsided  to  its  normal  mode  color,  we 
took  up  the  peck-baskets  between  us,  and  straggled  slowly 
home. 

How  nice  the  dinner  was  in  the  shady  back  room !  Only  a 
tea-dinner ;  the  beans  we  had  shelled  mixed  into  delicious 
succotash  with  the  sweetest  corn  and  new  churned  butter ; 
huckleberry  pies,  of  37esterday's  gathering  and  baking,  made 
in  deep  dishes,  with  inverted  teacups  to  hold  the  rich,  splen- 
did colored  syrup  ;  buttermilk  bread,  toothsome  and  tender, 
golden  pound-cake,  and  crisp  brown  doughnuts,  and  creamy 
sage-cheese,  and  fragrant  tea,  drawn  in  the  time-honored 
black  earthen  teapot  that  alone  draws  perfect  tea. 

It  grew  cooler  while  we  ate  ;  the  wind  began  to  sigh  up 
from  the  south,  and  a  shade  to  come  over  the  sky.  The 
locusts  left  off  their  rattle,  as  if  they  expected  something  else 
to  speak.  Once  or  twice  there  was  a  faint,  far-off  thrill  of 
thunder. 

Miss  Remember  went  out  to  the  front  door  when  we  got 
up  from  table.  Away  out  over  the  woodlands,  the  trees 


328  HITHERTO  : 

were  turning  up  white  undersides  of  leaves  to  the  asking  air. 
There  was  a  bank  of  magnificent  clouds  in  the  south,  defi- 
nitely formed  now,  with  great  curling  tops. 

u  The  thunder-heads  are  rising,"  said  Remember,  coming  in. 

"  We  get  pretty  much  the  heft  of  the  storms,  out  here 
among  the  rocks,"  said  Loclemy.  "  All  under  that  huckle- 
berry lot  is  clear  granite  ledge  ;  and  granite  draws  the  light- 
ning. We're  high  up,  too.  There's  nothing  but  Pitch  Hill 
and  Red  Rock,  that's  any  higher,  for  ten  miles  round." 

"What  do  you  talk  that  way  for,  Demie,  before  the  chil- 
dren? Anstiss'  face  is  as  white  as  a  sheet,  now.  The 
shower'll  go  round,  just  as  like  as  not." 

I  tried  not  to  mind  ;  perhaps  the  shower  would  go  round  ; 
but  I  felt  my  face  pale,  and  the  sick  thrill  running  through 
heart  and  nerves  that  thunder  in  the  air  always  gave  me.  I 
tried  to  think  of  the  little  birds  in  their  nests,  and  of  how 
man}'  safe  places  the  great  clouds  would  sweep  over  and  leave 
green,  untouched.  But  all  my  life  long  I  should  never  quite 
overgrow  the  horror  that  came  so  close  to  me  out  of  the 
blackness  and  blaze,  that  night,  outside  the  Copes'  shut  door. 

We  went  upstairs.  The  Polisher  girls  were  used  to  a  little 
nap  after  dinner.  The  two  large,  opposite  front  rooms  were 
open  across  to  each  other.  Hope  went  into  the  elder  ladies' 
apartment ;  they  were  going  to  teach  her  the  shell-pattern  for 
knitting.  Miss  Frasie  took  me  with  her  ;  brought  out  of  a 
dark  corner  cupboard  some  volumes  of  "  Persuasion "  and 
"  Northanger  Abbey,"  and  put  me  into  the  great  white  easy- 
chair  to  read. 

Then  she  folded  down  the  smooth  bedquilt,  laid  an  old 
shawl  across  the  lower  end  for  their  feet,  turned  up  the  night 
side  of  the  pillows,  and  she  and  Demie  prepared  to  mount. 
This  they  had  to  do  by  agreement,  and  with  military  preci- 
sion, so  as  not  to  "  roll  "  the  bed. 

First,  they  got  crickets,  upon  which  they  stood  at  either 
side.  Then,  with  exact  calculation,  each  put  a  foot  up,  into 
the  very  spot  where  it  was  to  stay ;  Miss  Demie  her  right 
foot,  Miss  Frasie  her  left ;  then  with  a  grasp  of  the  bedposts 
they  swung  themselves  up,  —  right  and  left  face,  the  nice 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  329 

point  here  being  not  to  bump  their  heads  as  they  met  aloft; 
and  then  they  sat,  and  finally  reclined,  eveiything  turning  out 
with  the  marvellous  precision  that  could  only  come  of  per- 
fect plan  and  long  usage.  Upon  which,  each  sister  said 
"  There  !  "  with  a  satisfied  breath  of  accomplishment  and  giving 
up,  which  was  a  part  of  the  performance  and  a  beginning  of 
repose.  I  suppose  they  had  done  just  so  for  forty  years. 

Something  in  the  idea  of  this,  beside  the  funniness,  diverted 
my  nervousness,  and  gave  me  that  sort  of  unreasoning  confi- 
dence which  we  pick  up  against  our  fears  in  things  that  have 
been  just  so  for  ever  so  long.  It  had  probably  rained  and 
lightened  many  a  summer  afternoon  when  they  had  as  calmly 
and  regularly  done  this ;  they  had  had  their  nap,  the  storm 
had  poured  itself  out  and  cleared  awaj^,  and  they  had  got  up 
unharmed  and  gone  down  and  made  tea. 

Also  there  was  a  drifting  of  clouds  along  the  horizon,  and 
a  sunbreak  overhead,  which  at  this  moment  encouraged  my 
faith  in  the  possibilit}r  that  the  showers  would  "go  about." 
About,  to  somebody  else  perhaps,  as  afraid  of  them  as  I. 
Over  the  round  world  the  tempests  must  break  somewhere. 

I  even  took  courage  to  go  across  into  Miss  Remember's 
room  before  they  all  quite  quieted  down,  to  beg  a  set  of  knit- 
ting-needles and  to  look  at  Hope's  stitch.  "We  meant  to 
make  a  quilt  at  our  odd  minutes,  as  a  birthday  present  for 
Aunt  Ildy.  Hope  had  finished  a  shell,  and  lent  it  to  me  for  a 
pattern.  I  went  softly  back  to  my  easy-chair,  and  the  whole 
house  hushed  up. 

There  was  a  great  hush  out  of  doors,  too.  The  brief  south- 
,erly  stir  in  the  air  was  over.  Only  some  uufelt  upper  current 
swayed  the  drifting  clouds,  whose  masses  crept  slowly  higher 
up  over  the  heaven.  I  would  not  look  to  see  how  high  they 
were.  The  sun  went  in,  and  a  shadow  lay  on  everything. 
But  that  there  does  when  a  fleece  of  a  hand's  breadth  crosses 
its  disk. 

I  knitted  back  and  forth,  —  three  purl  and  three  plain, — 
making  my  wideuings  at  the  corners. 

Miss  Lodemy  and  Miss  Frasie  were  asleep,  their  feet  rest- 
ing in  the  selfsame  hollows  they  had  made  in  climbing  up ; 


330  HITHEZTO: 

just  one  dint  in  each  pillow  under  the  head  that  had  not 
moved ;  when  they  got  up  there  would  be  two  perfect  prints 
of  human  figures,  as  of  two  fossils  in  a  rock. 

The  far-off  white  tops  of  the  woods  were  bending  this  way. 
The  wind  was  coming  up  again. 

Then  pale  shivers  ran  along  the  tall  grass,  swaying  in  its 
turn. 

It  grew  darker  and  darker. 

A  faint  gleam  —  I  could  hardly  tell  whether  it  were  a  sen- 
sation in  my  eyes  only,  or  a  flickering  about  my  needles  — 
came  and  went.  It  was  just  long  enough  to  feel. 

Is  there  anything  more  like  spirit  than  the  waking  out  of 
the  slumbering  air  of  this  shining  mystery  ? 

Thunder  muttered  low.  It  was  still  far  off,  apparently. 
But  how  close  the  darkness  grew  ! 

A  flash  came,  by  and  by,  quite  golden  and  distinct.     It 
seemed  to  fling  its  pennon  across  me,  through  the  room,  and 
seize  it  back  'again,  into  the  murk  without. 
I  threw  my  needles  under  the  bed. 

Still  Hope  said  nothing,  and  nobody  moved.  I  would  try 
not  to  be  childish.  As  I  thought  this,  came  the  challenge  of 
the  thunder,  uttering  in  tone  what  had  been  telegraphed  in 
light.  Heavy,  —  turning  itself  in  great  globes  of  sound  along 
the  sky,  —  these  bursting  and  pouring  out  a  hurtling  of 
minor,  sharper  crashes,  like  canister  shot. 

Then  I  stood  up,  noiselessly,  on  my  feet.  Still  the 
Polisher  girls  slept  on. 

I  never  saw  a  clay-darkness  like  that  which  gathered  then. 
It  seemed  to  be  let  down  upon  us,  fold  upon  fold.  It  settled 
like  a  weight  upon  the  house-top.  It  was  like  a  pall  across 
the  chimney^ 

Then  I  saw  what  I  have  never  seen  before  or  since. 
The  air  grew  incandescent. 

.     Little  crackles  of  fire  sprang  out  in  the  gloom  of  the  room. 
They  shot  and  hissed  here  and  there. 

Not  the  noise,  —  for  as  yet  there  had  been  but  that  first 
peal,  —  but  the  presence,  waked  them.  The  Polisher  girls  sat 
upright  on  the  bed.  When  they  moved,  —  when  I  flung  my- 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  331 

self  in  terror  toward  them,-  —  it  was  as  if  the  stir  struck  out 
the  electric  particles  afresh  from  the  overcharge  about  us. 
Between  our  faces  sparkled  the  scintillations. 

We  were  in  the  very  focus  of  the  storm. 

There  came  a  blue  blaze,  and  a  rending  of  thunder.  A 
long,  tearing,  hurling,  reverberating  crash,  as  if  hills  were 
split  and  flung  apart.  The  rain  poured  down. 

We  were  all  in  a  pale  huddle  in  the  little  passage  between 
the  rooms.  How  we  all  got  there  we  hardty  knew.  And 
still,  among  us,  hissed  and  snapped  the  little  fiery  atoms  with 
which  the  atmosphere  was  all  alive. 

"  Come  in  here  !  "  cried  Miss  Remember,  and  dragged  who- 
ever was  nearest  her.  We  hustled  down,  over  the  stair-head, 
into  the  dark,  middle  room.  Hope  pulled  out  the  bedstead 
from  the  wall,  and  we  six  women  heaped  ourselves  upon  it. 
It  was  better  here,  where  it  was  always  dark,  than  out  there 
where  the  awful  murk  had  come  upon  us. 

Over  our  heads,  —  under  our  feet,  —  beside  us,  —  or  every- 
where, —  was  that  shock  and  boom  and  multiplied  fulminant 
crash  ? 

Where  was  the  lightning  ?     We  saw  nothing. 

No  blaze  ;  but  from  the  height  above  our  heads  to  the  deep 
beneath,  one  terrible  outburst  and  downburst ;  one  unspeak- 
able plunging  blast  of  destruction. 

Then  smoke,  —  the  house  full ;  and  a  stifle  of  sulphur. 

We  were  struck.     Yet  we  were  all  alive. 

Was  the  house  on  fire  ?  Should  we  be  driven  out  into  the 
storm  ?  Where  would  the  flame  burst  out  ? 

We  could  only  wait,  paralyzed. 

Still  the  pouring  smoke ;  the  sickening  sulphurous  smell, 
and  the  taint  of  some  burned  woollen  thing  or  other.  A  dif- 
ferent smell  of  burning,  beside,  —  burned  plaster.  We  could 
not  tell  what  it  all  was  then.  We  only  sat  and  trembled,  and 
prayed,  without  any  words. 

For  the  tempest  raged  on ;  and  we  were  still  in  its  midst. 
Great  purple  streams  —  oceans  of  flame  —  filled  the  living 
air,  and  flashed  through  and  through  around  us.  Heaven  and 


332  HITHERTO  : 

earth  were  overflowed  with  livid  light,  and  resonant  with 
ceaseless  and  tremendous  concussions. 

We  saw  the  small,  terrible  coruscations  no  more.  We  forgot 
to  be  comforted  with  that,  or  to  think  that  the  awful  equilib- 
rium was  perhaps,  for  us,  regained. 

We  cowered  and  wondered  whether  God  could  mean  to 
make  us  die,  and  not  have  taken  us  in  that  first  fearful 
threatening  and  close-coming  of  his  power. 

Still  we  supposed  the  house  must  be  burning,  somewhere. 
Smouldering  slowly,  perhaps,  in  some  closet,  or  between  the 
walls,  or  in  some  pile  of  quilts  or  clothing  in  that  garret 
bej-ond  us,  where  the  lightning,  doubtless,  had  passed  through. 

Go  and  look  ?     Try  to  put  it  out,  if  it  were  there  ? 

We  dared  not,  —  we  could  not  move.  All  one  blaze  from 
end  to  end,  through  the  little  four-paned  gable  windows,  was 
that  usually  dim,  rambling  space  nnder  the  low  rafters,  when- 
ever we  lifted  our  eyes.  Go  there,  through  God's  fierce  fires 
of  heaven,  to  look  for  some  stray  spark  they  might  have 
kindled  among  poor  rags  or  timbers  ?  We  thought  as  little 
of  what  might  be  left  for  to-morrow  of  house  or  raiment,  as  we 
should  think  among  the  melting  elements  of  the  Judgment 
Day. 

Only  one  earthly  thing  I  did  think  of,  crouching  there,  mute, 
in  the  awfulness  ;  it  was  the  one  thing  of  earth  that  does  not 
fall  away  worthless,  with  its  plans  and  its  knowledges,  among 
the  fires.  I  thought  of  the  one  best  love  that  earth  had  given 
me.  The  soul  that  had  an  inmost  thought  for  me  drew  near 
me  then.  I  thought  of  Richard  Hathaway.  How  sorry  he 
would  be  if  he  knew  !  How  he  would  defend  and  comfort  me 
if  he  could ! 

I  scarcely  thought  of  the  storm  as  reaching  him  also ;  as 
holding  a  wide  countryside  under  its  cloud  and  flame  and  ter- 
ror. It  seemed  as  if  it  were  only  right  here,  over  our  heads  ; 
filling  and  rending  this  old,  lonely  house. 

Sometimes  there  would  be  a  little  ceasing  of  the  lightning  ; 
a  little  dying  away  and  retreating  of  the  thunder ;  a  little 
slow  hushing  of  the  fiercely  dashing  rain.  And  then  we  could 
tell  "whether  the  daylight  were  beginning  to  come  back  or  not. 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  333 

"Does  it  lift  a  little?  I  think  I  see  more  light  upon  the 
wall." 

And  Hope  would  say,  "  It  must  be  lifting  somewhere,  you 
know.  Somewhere — west  —  there  is  sunshine  now;  other 
people  are  in  it.  "We  shall  be  there  too." 

And  then  the  horrible  blackness  would  roll  over  again,  the 
faint  day-gleam  on  the  wall  was  lost,  and  there  were  only  the 
leap  of  the  lightning,  and  the  tumultuous  roar  of  the  thunder, 
all  about  us,  as  they  had  been  before. 

Cloud  after  cloud ;  hour  after  hour ;  the  storms  lasted  all 
through  the  afternoon.  Cramped  in  every  limb,  we  lay  and 
clung  together.  Hope  was  quietest ;  she  never  clutched  or 
grasped,  as  we  did.  When  she  spoke,  her  voice  was  so  low 
and  deep  that  it  seemed  to  come  from  some  far,  solemn  shelter 
away  clown  beneath  God's  hand. 

We  got  used  to  our  terror.  We  bore  it  as  people  bear  long 
pain.  The  sharpness  of  it  died  away.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
I  almost  forgot  what  it  was  ever  to  have  felt  safe  and  careless  ; 
ever  to  have  gone  out  and  in  under  the  sky  and  seen  it  blue 
and  sweet.  Was  all  this  force  and  fury  in  it,  slumbering, 
always  ?  Might  a  bolt  come  down  through  the  happy  air,  any 
time? 

Did  we  go  out  there,  among  those  wild  pastures  and  gray, 
lightning-drawing  rocks  only  this  morning,  picking  pleasant 
fruits  ? 

Was  that  little  patient  spring  trickling  there  yet,  among 
the  pines? 

Suddenly,  after  a  burst  that  rattled  from  rim  to  rim  of  the 
horizon,  a  new  sound  came  to  us  in  the  instant  of  comparative 
stillness  ;  new  as  if  we  had  never  heard  it  before.  A  very 
small,  slender  sound  ;  only  the  strike  of  a  horse's  hoofs,  gal- 
loping over  gravel,  and  then  their  deadened  thud  upon  the  wet 
sod. 

"  Hallo ! " 

"Oh,  thank  God !  Richard  !  " 

He  had  jumped  off,  thrown  his  horse's  bridle  round  a  post, 
and  let  himself  in.  I  met  him  on  the  stairs. 

As  he  came  up,  and  I  went  down,  —  in  that  mere  moment 


334  HITHERTO  : 

of  our  meeting,  he  divined  the  whole.  The  story  of  all  those 
dreadful  three  hours  was  in  my  white  face,  in  my  excited  ges- 
ture toward  him  as  toward  a  refuge,  in  that  sickening,  sulphur- 
mingled  smell  of  burned  hair  and  plaster  and  woollen,  still 
pervading  the  house.  From  the  very  front  and  presence  of 
death  I  came  to  him,  and  he  knew  it. 

"Nansie?"  he  said,  tenderly,  anxiously,  eagerly,  and 
reached  forward  his  arms  toward  me. 

I  let  myself  drop  into  them  as  into  a  safety.  I  was  held 
against  the  heart  that  I  had  felt  in  the  darkness.  And  then 
he  put  his  face  to  mine,  and  kissed  me. 

The. light  was  broadening  on  the  wall.  That  last  long,  wide, 
rattling  roll  was  the  retreat  of  the  tempest. 

"  It  is  all  bright  in  the  west,"  said  Richard.  "  It  is  all  over." 
How  glad  his  voice  sounded  ! 

Then  I  began  to  shiver  and  tremble.  I  had  been  all  tense 
with  fear  before.  Now  my  teeth  chattered,  and  I  could  not 
speak. 

He  brought  me  up  among  them  all,  into  Miss  Remember' s 
room  ;  where  the  yellow  light  from  the  peaceful  west  came  in. 
He  had  his  arm  still  about  me. 

"  Why,  I  told  you  so !  "  said  Hope.  And  the  deep,  low 
tone  had  mounted  suddenly  to  something  wonderful  in  its 
clearness.  It  was  like  an  angel  speaking  down  from  God, 
now,  out  of  the  stilled  heaven. 

"  I  told  you  there  was  sunshine  somewhere,  and  we  should 
come  to  it  again ! " 


A  STORY  OF  YESTERDAYS.  335 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

DOWN  THE  PINE    LANE. 

HE  went  all  through  the  house  with  us. 

Awed,  and  shrinking,  we  ventured  into  room  after  room, 
where  the  terrible  presence  had  been. 

It  had  been  behind,  beneath  us  ;  everywhere,  almost,  but  in 
that  dark,  central  spot  where  we  had  taken  refuge. 

The  bolt  had  seized  the  east  chimney,  where  the  flue  was 
warm  from  the  kitchen  fire.  On  its  top  it  had  parted,  sending 
one  stream  down  inside,  sweeping  clean  with  its  dreadful  rush 
every  particle  of  soot  and  ashes,  covering  the  floors  below 
with  their  forced-out  mass,  and  filling  the  house  with  smoke. 
It  had  torn  up  the  kitchen  hearth,  hurling  the  bricks  across 
the  room,  splintered  the  floor,  and  plunged  into  the  cellar 
beneath ;  finding  a  point  and  passage  for  its  leap,  doubtless, 
in  the  position  of  an  old,  heavy  iron  bar,  which  had  stood 
leaning  against  the  wall  below  since  they  could  hardly  remem- 
ber when,  and  was  now  half  buried,  obliquely,  in  the  earth, 
some  yards  away. 

Upstairs,  in  the  long  garret-room,  a  rent  in  the  roof  and  a 
split  rafter,  close  beside  the  chimney,  showed  where  the  other 
portion  of  the  fluid  had  come  in.  Just  behind  Lodemy's  bed- 
head it  was  ;  and  following  some  great  nail,  or  clamp,  or 
bolt,  a  third  current  had  torn  through,  caught  the  metal-rod 
around  the  high  old-fashioned  frame,  on  which  its  draperies 
had  some  time  run,  fused  them  in  its  fiery  grasp,  and  flung 
them  in  molten  drops  all  down  upon  blankets,  coverlit,  and 
carpet,  burning  holes,  in  every  one  of  which  a  perfect  shot  was 
buried.  This  was  the  smell  of  woollen  that  had  assailed  us. 
The  high,  gilt,  ornamented  mirror-frame  was  blackened,  and 


336  HITHERTO  : 

beside  it  was  torn  plaster,  and  outside  a  clapboard  burst  for- 
ward near  a  waterspout  that  ran  down  the  corner  to  the 
ground.  This,  split,  and  detached  from  its  fastenings,  told 
the  rest. 

Within  the  garret  was  a  most  strange  confusion.  As  if  the 
fearful  spirit  had  found  itself  penned  in,  and  had  dashed  itself 
hither  and  thither  in  mad,  instantaneous  search  and  trial  for 
an  outlet ;  seizing  and  flinging  pell-mell  one  thing  after  an- 
other that  failed  it,  in  its  grasp  after  that  which  should  suffice 
to  lead  it  through. 

An  old,  disabled  clock  was  disembowelled  of  its  machinery  ; 
its  springs  and  wheels  twisted,  melted,  and  scattered  ;  its 
pendulum  found  sticking  by  its  slender  point  straight  upright 
in  the  floor.  A  bundle  of  light  stair-rods  was  dispersed  and 
driven  in  every  direction,  no  two  lay  together  ;  some  had  gone 
through  the  windows,  out  of  doors. 

Quite  acrosst  the  building  from  its  point  of  entrance,  the 
mass  of  the  fluid  had  forced  its  way  through  beams  and  board- 
ing, and  found  conduct  by  a  new  leaden  pipe  down  into  the 
water-butt  by  the  kitchen  door.  Little  streams  seemed  to 
have  wandered  and  escaped  here  and  there. 

The  wires  over  the  girls'  "  stoop,"  on  which  the  greenery 
grew,  were  destroyed.  The  poles  and  vines  were  prostrate  ; 
scorched.  The  lis-htnina:  had  come  even  there,  and  broken 

o  o 

down  their  dream. 

Frasie  cried  when  she  saw  it.  It  was  the  worst  of  all. 
"  They  should  never  know"  she  said.  "  They  could  never 
tell  what  was  left." 

Other  mischief  might  be  traced  and  mended.  But  how 
could  they  mend  their  old,  long  fantasy,  that  had  grown  so 
clear  and  beautiful  with  years?  • 

Miss  Frasie  trembled  and  cried  more  and  more.  She 
was  delicate,  poor  old  lady,  and  sensitive,  as  imaginative  per- 
sons always  are  ;  and  the  shock  to  her  nerves  had  been  very 
serious.  Remember  gave  her  aromatic  hartshorn,  and  told 
her  to  behave  ;  whereupon  she  stopped  crying,  and  began  to 
giggle,  childishly.  This  was  worse.  * 

"  There  !  do  exactly  as  you're  a  mind  to,"  said  Remember, 


A    STOnJ    OF    YESTERDAYS.  337 

"  and  have  it  out ;  then  you'll  feel  better.     Only  if  you  can't 
stop,  keep  taking  the  hartshorn." 

"  Now,  see  here,"  said  Richard,  coming  in  where  we  were 
gathered  round  her.  "  You've  just  all  got  to  come  over  to 
the  Farm  and  stay  to-night,  and  as  much  longer  as  you  will. 
You  can't  get  tea  nor  breakfast  here,  even  saying  you  were 
fit  to,  as  you  aint.  That  kitchen  chimney  has  got  to  be  looked 
to  before  you.  build  a  fire  in  it.  Can  you  keep  comfortable 
while  I  ride  home,  and  bring  back  Jabez  and  a  wagon  ?  " 

Only  Richard  would  have  thought  of  that ;  that  neither 
Hope  nor  I  ought  to  have  the  care  of  driving ;  that  we  must 
be  taken  care  of  to-night  in  all  things.  I  think  he  had  found 
too,  that  the  horse,  standing  fastened  in  the  barn  through  all 
the  tempest,  had  had  nerves  as  well  as  we,  and  was  hardly  in 
fit  condition  for  a  nervous  woman's  hands. 

So  he  left  us,  to  bring  back  Putterkoo  and  Jabez.  After  he 
had  gone,  we  stayed  still  in  the  room  where  we  were, —  the  lit- 
tle oblong  backroom  opening  on  the  "  stoop."  I  think  they  all 
had  the  same  feeling  that  I  had ;  of  something  weird  and 
ghostty  that  had  been  through  the  house ;  that  somehow 
seemed  like  an  uncanny  presence  still. 

It  grew  dusk  ;  the  sun  was  down.  There  were  tall  old  lilac- 
bushes  close  to  the  windows  of  this  room,  reaching  away  up 
to  the  very  eaves.  The  shadows  gathered  quickly ;  we  sat 
closer  together. 

"  Hadn't  we  better  be  getting  our  things  on?"  suggested 
Remember.  "  Men-folks  don't  like  to  wait." 

How  did  she  know  about  men-folks  ?  Just  as  we  know  about 
flavors  that  we  never  tasted,  yet  can  say  "  This,  or  that,  is 
like  them." 

But  to  think  of  Remember  Polisher  asking  anybody,  "  Hadn't 
we  better  ?  "  Or  even  thinking  of  a  thing  that  perhaps  had 
better  be  done,  without  springing  right  up  to  do  it !  Yet 
'Member  sat  on,  and  nobody  answered.  Nobody  thought  we 
had  better,  until  Richard  should  come  again. 

I  saw  it  twice  before  I  said  anj'thing.      At  first  I  supposed 
my  eyes  were  strained  with  all  the  glare  and  fright,  and  that 
I  saw  it  as  a  sort  of  spectrum.     But  it  came  a  third  time,  aiid 
22 


838  BITHERTO:    . 

at  the  same  moment  Lodemy  and  I  spoke  out,  involuntarily, 
"What  was  that?" 

It  was  only  a  pale  blue  tremble  in  the  air ;  like  the  shim- 
mering of  heat,  but  with  this  color  added.  It  quivered  for  an 
instant,  and  melted  out.  It  was  like  a  breath ;  it  might  be 
dying  breath. 

"  Why?  Do  you  hear  anything?  Are  they  coming?" 
asked  Miss  Frasie,  in  her  weak,  thin,  anxious  voice. 

"  I  guess  not,"  said  Hope.  "  Perhaps  something  went  by, 
over  on  the  road." 

She  shook  her  head,  behind  Miss  Frasie,  as  she  spoke.  I 
knew  by  her  look  that  she  had  seen  what  we  did.  But  Miss 
Frasie  must  not  be  startled  any  more. 

It  happened  again  and  again,  however,  while  we  waited.  I 
breathed  shorter  and  shorter,  longing  for  Richard  to  come. 
Something  rushed  through  my  brain  with  an  undefined,  igno- 
rant suggestion, —  one  word,  —  that  I  had  picked  up  some  time  ; 
I  could  not  tell  where,  or  how. 

"  After-dap" 

Was  there  such  a  thing  ?  Might  there  be  some  force,  slum- 
bering, unappeased,  unequalized  still,  around  us, — under  our 
feet?  Might  there  be,  after  long  interval,  some  sudden  out- 
break, some  final,  harmonizing  discharge  through  this  haunted 
air,  these  dislocated  affinities? 

I  should  have  doubted  to  this  day,  perhaps,  if  we  really  did 
see  it,  only  that  after  Richard  came,  and  began  to  help  make 
fast  the  house  for  leaving,  Hope  and  he  and  I  were  all  together 
by  a  doorway,  when  it  came  again.  Faint,  flickering,  just 
visible,  like  a  licking  flame,  it  ran  down  along  the  door-frame, 
fading  as  it  went. 

"Did  you  see?" 

We  both  turned  to  Richard,  asking  him. 

"  Yes.  It's  strange.  But  then  it's  all  strange.  It's  coming 
round  right,  I  suppose.  Whatever  it  is,  it's  working  off. 
There's  alwa}-s  a  way  for  everything,  and  it  isn't  our  lookout, 
you  sec.  Now  wrap  up  ;  and  let's  be  off." 

He  hurried  us  away.  He  would  not  let  us  stop  to  watch,  or 
think,  or  talk. 


A   STORT   OF   YESTERDAYS.  839 

Martha  had  a  wonderful  tea  for  us  that  night ;  and  it  was 
wonderful  to  sit  down  to  it,  and  eat  and  drink,  as  if  we  had 
not  seen  into  the  depths,  and  felt  the  awful  touch  of  the  powers 
of  the  air,  and  been  almost  out  of  the  body  and  face  to  face 
with  God. 

Yet  we  were  left  to  live  here  on  this  earth,  and  not  a  hair  of  our 
heads  had  been  breathed  upon,  and  quiet  days  were  to  be 
again  for  us,  —  great  sunrises  and  glorious  sunsets,  with  no 
terror  in  their  flames  ;  and  bread  was  to  be  sweet  and  needful, 
and  fruits  juicy,  and  common  living  among  friends  pleasant, 
as  it  had  been,  in  old,  small,  simple  ways. 

To  see  Martha  bring  the  little  old,  black  teapot  in,  to  fill  up 
the  tall  china  one,  made  me  feel  braver  again,  I  knew  not 
how.  It  was  the  reassurance  that  there  could  still  be  little 
black  teapots,  and  things  like  them,  and  the  use  of  them,  in 
the  world.  The  same  world  where  there  were  lightning-draw- 
ing rocks,  and  tempests,  and  great  clouds  coming  down,  and 
fire  rushing  from  the  heavens  forked  with  destruction. 

Teas  and  breakfasts  and  dinners  and  peaceful  nights  of 
sleep,  and  household  work,  and  farming  in  the  fields,  always, 
everywhere  ;  storms  here  and  there  onty,  and  once  in  a  while. 

I  was  quite  happy  again  by  bedtime.  Very  happy  when 
Richard  stopped  me  at  the  stairfoot,  behind  the  others,  though 
he  had  said  good-night  before. 

"  I  could  not  help  —  that  —  Anstiss  ;  when  I  first  came,  you 
know.  It  was  just  as  if  I  had  found  you  on  the  other  side  of 
the  grave.  I  don't  count  it  as  any  difference  —  yet  — 
unless  — " 

"  It  is  yet,  —  it  is  unless ! "  I  answered  him  low,  hurriedly, 
impetuously.  "  Richard,  there  will  never  be  anybody  like 
you!" 

I  thought  only  of  his  strong,  beautiful,  sur.e  love.  I  must 
have  it  about  me  in  my  life.  I  could  not  turn  and  go  away 
from  it  again.  Had  not  God  sent  it?  Put  it  before  me,  once, 
twice,  always?  Had  he  given  me  anything  else?  Did  this 
mean  nothing  of  his  will  ? 

"  Anstiss  !  —  Come  back  a  minute,  Austiss  !  " 

I  turned  to  go  back  with  him. 


340  HITHERTO  : 

"  No !  No !  "  he  said,  then,  in  his  strong,  generous  way. 
"  It  shall  all  be  till  morning.  Good-night  —  Nansie  !  " 

He  did  not  kiss  me,  though  we  were  left  all  alone.  He  did 
not  even  take  me  in  his  arms  again.  He  would  not  claim  me. 
He  would  not  take  advantage  of  the  strange  excitement  and 
impulse  of  the  night. 

Would  any  other  than  Richard  Hathaway  ever  have  done  so  ? 

Might  I  not  love  this  man  ? 

It  was  a  strange  night  to  me.  Twice  in  my  life  I  have 
passed  other  such  nights,  when  a  great  peace  has  come  after  a 
deep  agony  of  experience. 

I  do  not  know  which  were  the  greater  rests,  —  the  sleepings 
or  the  wakings.  They  alternated  all  night  long. 

The  hush  and  the  sweetness  after  the  storm ;  the  tame  little 
night-winds  breathing  in  at  the  windows  ;  the  gleam  of  the 
far-up  stars.  The  wideness  of  the  safety  and  the  mere  point 
of  havoc  and  harm.  The  being  back  again;  from  glimpse  and 
possibilitj'  and  terrible  nearness  of  doom.  I  rested  in  these 
with  untold,  unsated  content.  I  rested  in  the  human  love 
beside  me ;  ready  to  be  close  beside  me  through  all.  God 
forgive  me  if  this  were  all  selfishness.  I  thought  it  was 
thankfulness  and  peace. 

In  the  morning  Miss  Remember  was  herself  again.  She 
must  go  back  to  the  Ledges. 

"  All  creation  will  be  there,  you  see,  as  soon  as  it  gets 
round.  And  it's  pretty  well  round  by  this  time.  It'll  be 
wuss'n  lightning  if  I  aint  there.  Submit,  you  and  I'll  go 
along.  The  girls  can  stay  if  they  like  ;  and  if  they  think  they 
can  get  over  it  better  here  than  there.  But  I'm  for  marching 
right  up  to  a  thing,  when  it's  got  to  be  met  and  seen  to." 

So  Submit  and  Remember  went  along. 

Hope  sat  with  Lodemy  and  Frasie,  after  the  early  morning 
work  was  done,  out  by  the  open  hall  door,  where  the  air  came 
by,  keen  and  bright,  from  the  north-west  hills,  "  swept  crystal 
clear,"  and  the  little  slant  of  sunshine  at  their  feet,  beneath 
the  trees,  was  pleasant. 

Hope  took  up  the  task-  of  soothing  poor  Miss  Frasie.     It 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  341 

was  needful ;  for  there  was  real  danger  in  the  shattering  of 
her  nerves  and  spirits. 

The  real  and  the  ideal,  which  she  had  lived  in  so  curiously 
together,  seemed  jumbled  in  her  mind  into  one  loss  and  con- 
fusion and  pain. 

"  I'd  got  it  all  kind  of  regular  and  nice,  you  know ;  I  knew 
just  where  everything  was.  Now,  I  don't  know  whether 
there's  anything.  Or  ever  was.  Do  you  think  it  was  a  judg- 
ment, Hope  ?  Was  it  graven  images  ?  " 

"  Don't  you  see,  dear  Miss  Frasie,  that  the  very  things  the 
storm  could  not  touch,  were  the  things  you  loved  so  ?  It  was 
only  the  signs  of  them  that  could  be  torn  down.  Your  little 
vines  and  strings  and  wires  were  only  little  marks  put  in  to 
keep  the  place,  and  make  it  seem  more  real ;  but  they  were 
the  least  real  things.  Why,  if  it  had  all  been  built  in  timber, 
that  wouldn't  have  been  the  real  part.  It  isn't  the  real  part 
of  any  houses.  Lightning  can't  strike  the  inside.  The  signs 
of  us,  ourselves,  aren't  the  real  part  of  us,  even.  Why,  it  all 
goes  together,  and  there  is  just  one  comfort  in  it.  '  For  we 
know,  if  the  earthly  house  of  this  tabernacle  were  dissolved, 
we  have  a  house  not  made  with  hands,  eternal  in  the  heavens.' 
—  I  never  saw  that  before  !  It  has  just  come  !  " 

"  Why,  I  don't  much  believe  it  would  be  wicked,"  Hope 
went  on,  "  to  take  those  other  words  for  such  a  meaning, 
partly :  '  Lay  up  for  yourselves  treasures  in  heaven,  where 
neither  moth  nor  rust  doth  corrupt,  and  where  thieves  cannot 
break  through  nor  steal.'  I  think  God  gave  it  to  you,  dear 
Miss  Frasie,  within ;  what  he  did  not  see  good  to  give  you 
without ;  I  think  it  is  the  beginning  of  what  is  laid  up  for  yon 
from  the  foundation  ;  just  as  we  give  little  children  a  taste, 
you  know,  and  put  the  rest  away.  It  isn't  struck  nor  burned ; 
it's  there  !  " 

Nobody  but  Hope  could  have  comforted  her  so.  I  think 
Hope  saved  her  "faculties,"  which  Miss  Remember  was 
afraid  would  go. 

Richard  came  to  me,  very  directly  and  simply,  and  asked 
me  if  I  would  walk  down  the  Pine  Lane  with  him. 

The  Pine  Lane  —  really  a  glorious  avenue  —  ran  down  be- 


342  HITHERTO  : 

bind  the  orchard,  skirting  the  Great  Mowing,  and  ended  in 
deep  woods.  It  had  begun  with  a  cart-path,  I  suppose,  up 
which  they  brought  in  their  logs  cut  in  the  "  Back  Lot." 
Generations  ago,  the  pine-trees  had  been  left  standing  — 
some  even  planted  in  —  on  each  side,  as  the  fields  were 
cleared ;  and  now,  down  to  the  piece  of  old  forest  whence 
they  still  cut  all  their  winter  supplies,  it  was  one  broad, 
shaded  pathway,  deeply  carpeted  with  soft  brown  needles. 

It  was  like  the  aisle  of  a  cathedral.  I  walked  down  by 
Richard's  side,  as  I  might  have  walked  down  a  church  to  an 
altar.  I  knew  we  should  come  back  from  that  walk  no  more 
two,  but  one. 

We  came  out  of  the  deep,  sweet-smelling  shade  upon  a 
knoll  that  lay  against  the  woods.  Light  broke  in  here.  It 
was  like  an  open  chancel,  —  a  great  shrine,  -^-  with  the  Pres- 
ence shining  from  above,  as  it  came  down  between  the  cheru- 
bim. 

The  forest  around  us  gathered  gradually.  Its  border  was 
of  light  growth ;  birches  and  alders  edged  it  like  a  fringe. 
We  looked  into  quiet  nooks,  and  down  the  openings,  of  little 
footpaths,  across  which  squirrels  ran,  and  within  which  were 
nests  of  many  little  birds. 

We  sat  there  all  alone  with  God  and  his  beauty. 

"  It  is  a  good  place  to  come  to  after  yesterday,"  said  Rich- 
ard. 

I  felt  its  calmness  and  sweetness  good,  as  he  knew  they 
would  be  for  me.  Richard  was  a  providence  for  me,  always. 

We  rested  there,  silently;  till  our  whole  souls  and  bodies 
were  full,  in  every  thought  and  sense,  of  the  rich  and  beauti- 
ful peace. 

"This  is  your  lane,  Anstis^,"  said  Richard,  by  and  by. 
"  We've  never  been  here  many  times  together ;  and  yet  you've 
been  with  me  always." 

After  that  there  was  a  silence  between  us  for  a  while. 

"  Every  bit  of  the  farm  is  yours  in  that  way,"  he  began 
again.  "  You  can't  help  it,  whether  you  take  it  or  not." 

"  Please  don't  talk  about  taking,  Richard.  It  is  all  taking, 
with  me.  All  giving,  with  you." 


A    STORY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  343 

"Will  you  take  me,  Anstiss?" 

Even  then  he  asked  me  to  give  him  nothing ;  only  that  he 
might  be  allowed  to  give. 

It  must  have  been  meant  to  be. 

I  turned  round  and  put  my  two  hands  in  his.  Then  I 
dropped  my  face  upon  them,  and  cried. 

Richard  drew  me  up,  and  took  me  into  his  arms. 

"  I  will  make  you  as  happy  as  the  day  is  long,"  he  said, 
slowly,  and  sweetly,  and  solemnly. 

He  did  not  tell  me,  like  other  men,  that  I  had  made  him 
happy.  He  gave  himself,  utterly,  like  God. 

How  mean  I  feel  nrpelf,  remembering  and  writing  this  ! 

It  is  not  good  to  receive  all.  God  himself  knows  that,  re- 
quiring us  to  give  back,  even  to  him. 

But  I  was  very  restfully,  thankfully,  happy. 

I  could  do  no  otherwise.  This  love  was  put  for  me,  and  I 
could  no  longer  do  without  it.  God  knew.  I  know  this  day, 
that  he  did  know. 

The  morning  grew  sweeter  and  sweeter,  in  the  sunniness 
after  the  rain.  We  stayed  there  a  long  time. 

Then  we  came  up,  through  the  pines,  into  the  world  again. 

We  had  to  go  home  before  dinner,  Hope  and  I.  Aunt  Ildy 
would  think  it  strange  if  we  did  not,  although  a  message  had 
been  sent  to  her  last  night,  and  she  knew  that  we  were  safe, 
and  where. 

Richard  drove  us  in.  Jabez  was  to  come  into  the  town, 
and  bring  him  back. 

Martha  stared  at  Richard's  goings  on,  and  goings  off  to- 
day. 

"  He  hasn't  laid  a  finger  to  the  farm,"  she  said.  "  The 
men  are  just  chalking  out  for  therselves,  as  they  please. 
'Taint  his  way.  The  thunder's  turned  everything,  I  think, 
besides  the  milk ! " 


344  HITHERTO  : 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

ANSTISS   HATHAWAY. 

I  WENT  straight  up  to  Aunt  Ildy.  She  was  in  her  room, 
darning  some  cap-laces. 

I  forgot,  for  the  moment,  all  about  the  lightning.  That 
was  the  event  before  the  last.  It  was  to-day's  news,  not  yes- 
terday's, that  I  had  upon  heart  and  lip. 

"  Aunt  Ildy,"  I  said,  "  Richard  and  I  have  made  up  our 
minds." 

Dead  silence. 

"What  turn  could  any  displeasure  have  taken,  to  equal 
that? 

She  did  not  even  lift  her  eyes.  I  saw  a  certain  start  of  as- 
tonishment, however,  under  the  skin,  as  it  were  ;  and  then  the 
determination  that  set  the  lips  and  kept  the  eyelids  down. 
Something  was  not  right  about  it ;  but  what  could  I  do  next  ? 
I  stood  and  waited. 

I  could  not  tell  her  over  again.  I  could  not  enlarge,  or  tell 
more.  Neither  could  I  go  away  without  answer  or  notice.  I 
wondered. how  long  it  would  last,  and  whether  she  could  bear 
it  out  longer  than  I  could.  I  think  I  stood  still  there,  before? 
her,  for  about  three  minutes.  It  seemed  five  times  as  long. 

"Well?"  she  said,  at  length,  lifting  her  eyes  severely,  as 
if  simply  wondering  what  I  waited  for. 

"  You  heard  what  I  said,  aunt?" 

She  waited  again. 

"  About  Richard  and  me?    "We  have  decided  it." 

"  Umph !     Very  well.     Then  I  suppose  it  is  decided." 

Her  eyes  went  down  again. 

"  Richard  is  downstairs,  aunt." 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  345 

"  He  can't  want  me.  There  seems  to  be  no  reference  to 
me  in  the  case." 

She  looked,  for  outraged  dignity,  like  nothing  less  than  the 
United  States  government  in  a  moment  of  defied  authority  or 
disregarded  claim. 

"  It  used  to  be  the  fashion  to  consult  fathers,  or  mothers,  or 
somebody,  before -things  were  decided." 

"Why,  auntie,  of  course  he  wants  to  see  you.  But  I  came 
to  tell  you  first,  myself." 

Receiving  no  answer,  and  utterty  at  a  loss  as  to  whether 
she  would  appear  and  welcome  him  or  not,  I  had  to  go  away 
downstairs  again  to  Richard. 

He  was  in  the  little  sitting-room,  that  was  closed,  green  and 
cool,  against  the  August  heat.  Hope  had  gone  to  Lucretia  in 
the  kitchen,  and  presently  I  heard  her  pass  upstairs,  to  Aunt 
Ilcly.  Then  there  were  questions,  and  answers,  and  talk,  fast 
enough.  Hope  was  recounting,  I  knew,  our  experience  at  the 
Ledges. 

I  sat  down  by  Richard,  on  the  hair-cloth  sofa  in  the  corner. 
I  was  more  sure  than  ever  that  he  was  my  refuge  and  rest. 
What  should  I  have  done  if  it  had  been  any  other  than  Rich- 
ard ?  He  knew  Aunt  Ildy's  ways. 

"  You  must  manage  it  with  Aunt  Ildy,"  I  said  to  him. 
"  I've  been  unlucljy,  and  begun  at  the  wrong  end  with  her." 

I  laughed  as  I  said  it ;  and  then  I  cried  a  little.  I  could 
not  help  it ;  it  seemed  hard  to  me,  in  this  great  moment  of  my 
life,  to  miss  —  to  want  —  I  knew  not  what.  I  know  now. 
It  was  mother-love.  That  which  I  had  missed  all  my  life ; 
missed  it  so  long,  that  half  the  time  I  knew  not  now  what  it 
was  I  did  miss.  I  looked  for  bread,  and  I  had  got  a  stone. 

Yet  Aunt  Ilcly  —  I  would  not  forget  it  —  could  be,  had 
been,  very  kind.  There  was  love  in  her  heart,  deep  down ; 
sister-love,  aunt-love,  —  her  variet}-  of  it, — I  suppose,  too, 
There  are  all  sorts  and  ways  of  aunt-love  ;  of  mother-love 
there  is  but  one. 

Perhaps  Hope  did  it ;  perhaps  Aunt  Ildy  meant  it  all  the 
while ;  but  she  came  down  after  a  time,  and  spoke  to  Richard 


346  HITHERTO  : 

very  civilly.  As  soon  as  I  could,  I  got  away,  and  carried  my 
bonnet  upstairs. 

When  I  came  back,  she  was  doing  everything  proper  and 
handsome.  A  tray,  with  plates  and  cake  and  wine,  as  suitable 
observance,  stood  waiting  on  the  table  ;  upon  my  return,  at  a 
look  from  Aunt  Ildy,  Hope  handed  it  round.  She  came  first 
to  me  ;  I  broke  a  corner  off  a  rich  slice  of  the.sacred  compound, 
and  took  in  my  fingers  one  of  the  little  low,  round,  old-fash- 
ioned glasses,  with  a  feeling  of  guilt  at  being  of  so  much  im- 
portance. But  I  was  happy  ;  I  knew  that  Richard  must  have 
made  all  right. 

Aunt  Ildy  had  been,  for  a  moment,  like  one  of  our  modern 
street-cars,  slipped  off  her  track ;  she  had  been  hoisted  on 
again,  and  could  proceed  comfortably  now  upon  the  propriety- 
grade. 

After  the  little  state  luncheon,  Richard  stayed  on,  till  it  was 
time  for  dinner,  which  he  ate  with  us,  without  more  ado. 

Uncle  Royle  came  in,  with  some  speciality  in  his  manner ; 
he  had  on  a  fresh,  white-frilled  shirt ;  Aunt  Ildy  had  had  him 
upstairs.  She,  too,  had  put  on  rather  a  festival  cap. 

Uncle  Royle  shook  hands,  with  a  particular  kindness  and 
dignity,  with  Richard.  It  was  the  right  hand  of  family  fellow- 
ship ;  now  it  was  all  over  for  the  present ;  we  could  take  things 
naturally. 

I  was  glad  to  talk  about  the  storm,  and  the  Polisher  girls. 
I  wondered  what  people  did  who  were  engaged,  who  had  noth- 
ing happen  to  them,  at  the  time,  but  the  engagement.  I 
thought  an  earthquake  must  be  a  gentle  relief. 

After  all,  it  was  a  white,  pleasant  day  in  my  life.  I  did 
not  like  being  made  much  of  at  the  moment ;  because  I  was  so 
ill-used  to  it,  and  have  always  felt  it  such  a  misdemeanor  ;  but 
I  was  glad  to  remember  it  at  night,  and  I  was  very  grateful. 

I  was  terribly  afraid,  however,  of  all  the  trouble  I  should 
have  to  make  for  Aunt  Ildy  before  she  had  done  with  me.  I 
wished  I  were  married,  and  it  were  all  well  over. 

Hope  went,  in  a  day  or  two,  for  a  regular  visit  at  the  Pol- 
isher girlses.  It  was  her  own  thought.  They  were  old,  and 
timid,  she  said,  and  were  in  such  dread  of  more  storms.  They 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  347 

had  so  much  to  do,  too ;  they  ought  not  to  be  all  by  them- 
selves, just  for  a  while. 

Hope  seemed  very  still,  somehow,  since  these  happenings. 
She  was  heart-glad  —  we  knew  that — that  it  was  all  right 
between  us  ;  it  was  easy  to  see  Hope's  gladness,  or  her  pain. 
She  was  glad,  satisfied  ;  but  somehow  she  slid  away  into  a 
retired  tranquillity  of  her  own.  She  was  busy  and  cheerful, 
always  doing,  but  softly,  as  if  she  were  almost  afraid  of  wak- 
ing something.  Only  that  her  manner  was  so  sweet,  and  her 
whole  self  so  remindful  of  nothing  that  was  not  pretty  and 
poetical,  she  made  me  think,  curiously,  of  a  most  homely 
thing,  —  of  Aunt  Ildy's  way  when  she  was  threatened  with  a 
spasm  of  hiccough.  Right  wherever  she  was,  at  the  first 
symptom,  she  would  lay  hold  of  something,  grip  hard,  will 
hard,  and  breathe  calm  and  slow.  If  she  could  get  over  the 
first  minute  or  two,  all  was  well ;  the  paroxysm  would  never 
come  ;  but  if  it  once  got  the  better  of  her,  she  had  a  suffering 
time.  Hope  seemed  almost  to  keep  her  breath  under,  as  if 
some  soul-spasm,  which  she  would  not  have,  for  the  moment 
threatened  her.  Whether  it  were  a  fear  and  nervousness 
excited  in  her,  as  in  us,  by  the  storm  and  its  horrors,  or  a  dread 
of  dreading,  that  was  upon  her,  and  she  thus  put  by,  I  do  not 
know  ;  she  seemed  to  put  by  something  ;  and,  whatever  it  was, 
I  think  it  never  held  her.  She  rose  more  thoroughly  and  clear 
from  the  influence  of  that  time  than  I  have  ever  done. 

She  helped  the  Polisher  girls  thi'ough  with  all  their  labors 
of  renovation ;  she  realized  many  little  idealities  of  home- 
adornment  for  ( them  ;  she  put  a  new,  fresh  face  on  much  that 
replaced  what  else  might  have  been  unpleasant  in  its  reminder 
and  association  ;  she  left  them  cheerful,  and  she  came  home 
blithe. 

I  was  to  be  married  in  October  ;  there  was  nothing  to  wait 
for.  Nothing  but  my  outfitting,  which  was  all  to  be  done. 

Hope  and  I  sat  day  after  day  by  the  windows  in  Aunt  Ildy's 
room,  with  the  big  band-basket  full  of  prepared  work  between 
us,  and  stitched  away  busily. 

All  the  makings  of  the  household  were  set  on  foot  and 
mostly  accomplished  in  Auut  Ildy's  room ;  everything  was 


348  HITHERTO  : 

cut  out  on  her  large  bed.  She  herself,  when  she  was  not  cut- 
ting out,  sat  in  her  rocking-chair  by  the  chimney  ;  in  the 
summer-time  she  put  her  spools  and  scissors  on  the  little  ledge 
under  the  mantel ;  in  the  winter  she  ranged  them  on  the  broad 
corners  of  the  Franklin  stove. 

I  remembered  the  days  of  Margaret  Edgell  and  her  bride- 
hood.  I  thought  of  the  things  I  meant  then  to  have  if  ever  I 
were  a  bride ;  of  my  determination  to  be  married  in  church 
and  wear  a  veil. 

It  was  curious  how  much  I  gave  up  as  unimportant,  or  as 
not  worth  insisting  on,  now  that  the  time  had  come.  One 
after  another,  by  Auntlldy's  decisions,  or  my  own  silence  con- 
cerning them,  they  were  dropped  out  of  the  catalogue  of 
conditions  and  furnishings ;  till  the  poetry  of  my  bridal 
surroundings  was  very  nearty  all  shorn  away,  and  only  a  very 
substantial  and  prosaic  provision  remained. 

Plenty  of  good  towels  and  tablecloths,  sheets  and  pillow- 
cases, for  I  must  not  go  empty-handed  of  these  to  the  Farm, 
though  Richard  was  a  householder  already.  Two  good,  use- 
ful, dark  silks,  and  two  merinos,  were  my  winter  dresses  ;  a 
double  set  of  all  under-garments,  with  extra  frillings  and 
edgings  ;  two  calicoes,  for  morning  wear  ;  a  broche  shawl  for  the 
autumn,  and  a  purple  thibet  cloth  pelisse,  bound  with  silk,  for 
the  winter ;  after  I  had  got  all  these,  I  was  ashamed  to  ask 
for  white  silk  and  tulle  for  wedding  array.  I  was  ashamed  to 
seem  to  take  to  myself  any  central  importance  ;  to  intimate 
that  my  being  married  could  be  the  beautiful  and  absorbing 
thing  that  it  was  for  other  people  ;  a  thing  to  look  at  and  to 
talk  about.  I  never  breathed  a  word  about  the  veil ;  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  be  married  with  flowers  in  my  hair. 

Aunt  Ildy  bought  me  a  fawn-colored  silk,  very  pale  and 
delicate,  and  broad  thread-lace  for  bosom  and  sleeves  ;  these 
she  said  would  always  be  useful ;  the  silk  would  turn,  and 
then  color.  I  was  so  overwhelmed  by  her  thought  for  me, 
and  her  real  liberality,  that  I  uttered  no  word  of  preference 
for  maiden  white. 

Yet  it  was  all  just  as  it  had  been  years  ago ;    the  window 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  349 

* 

was  high  ;  there  was  a  wall  in  the  way  ;  things  were  to  -  be 
acquiesced  in,  and  made  to  do. 

I  let  my  fancies  drop  ;  I  accepted  the  prose  yet  once  more. 
Behind  and  beyond  were  the  fact  of  Richard's  love,  and  the 
poetry  of  the  new  life  that  was  to  be  for  me. 

The  Grandon  Copes  came  home  late  in  September.  The 
house  at  South  Side  was  fall ;  Laura  and  Kitty  were  both  to 
be  married  in  the  spring. 

Augusta  came  directly  to  see  me  on  her  return ;  she  was 
very  well  satisfied  with  my  marriage. 

"  Mr.  Hathaway  is  such  a  strong,  genuine  man,"  she  said. 
"  He  is  sure  to  go  steadily  on  in  the  world.  Grandon  has 
the  highest  opinion  of  him,  and  of  his  influence  in  the  neigh- 
borhood. You'll  have  such  a  nice  home,  too,  Nannie  ;  just 
what  you  like  best  about  you.  And  it  will  be  so  nice  to  come 
there  in  the  summer-times  and  take  little  teas  with  you.  I 
am  glad  your  wedding  is  to  be  at  once  ;  later  I  couldn't  have 
been  with  you  ;  and  by  January  we  shall  be  in  Washington." 

And  then  she  gave  me  her  wedding  gift,  —  a  delicate, 
superb,  thread-lace  scarf. 

"  It  can  be  a  veil,  you  know,  if  you  will  do  me  the  pleas- 
ure of  wearing  it  so,  and  afterward  a  scarf,  or  anything,  in 
fact.  Thread-lace  is  always  '  handy  to  have  in  the  house,'  as 
my  dressmaker  said  to  me  once,  when  I  couldn't  quite  so  well 
afford  it,  and  she  had  made  me  get  a  yard  too  much  at  eight 
dollars  the  yard." 

She  approved  of  my  wedding  dress.  "  It  was  sunshiny," 
she  said.  "  Just  the  same  pale  sort  of  sunshine  that  I  had  in 
my  hair." 

It  would  be  lovely  now,  indeed,  with  her  exquisite,  mag- 
nificent addition.  It  was  Augusta's  wonderful  tact  once  more. 
She  had  either  divined  from  her  knowledge  of  Aunt  Ildy,  or 
found  out  from  Hope,  that  my  wedding  dress  was  to  be  hand- 
some and  sensible  only ;  she  threw  the  bridal  grace  over  it, 
transforming  it  into  summer-sunshine  and  fleecy  cloud. 
Without  interference,  either ;  it  was  a  gift  for  afterward  ;  Aunt 
Ildy  saw  especially  the  judiciousness  Of  that ;  only  she  should 


350  HITHERTO  : 

feel  it  a  compliment  if  I  changed  my  mind  about  a  veil,  and 
wore  it  at  my  wedding. 

She  came  down  on  the  bright  October  morning,  early,  to  lay 
•  its  frosted  mist  over  my  hair,  and  fasten  it  with  flowers  ;  tube- 
roses and  jessamine,  and  cool,  gloss}-,  deep-green  leaves,  with 
spra37s  of  delicate  vines  falling  and  wandering  away,  among 
its  transparent  folds. 

It  was  strange  how  it  should  always  fall  to  her  to  give  my 
life  whatever  touch  of  outer  grace  it  got ;  she  came  in  like  a 
fairy  godmother,  laying  gifts  and  spells  upon  me. 

She  put  my  very  choice  and  fate  in  her  own  new  lights,  by 
her  ways  of  setting  forth.  She  could  alwa}rs  put  things  in  such 
light  and  aspect  as  she  would. 

She  made  my  home  and  future  complementary  to  her  own  ; 
the  Farm  over  against  South  Side.  She  rounded  the  picture, 
showed  it  in  related  parts,  covering  it  with  beauty  and  pleas- 
antness. 

She  could  have  me  now,  again,  more  than  ever.  Marriage 
woifld  bring  me  into  her  sympathies.  Marriage  settled  every- 
thing ;  after  that,  people  could  understand  and  go  on. 

I  was  married  in  the  forenoon,  in  the  stiff  front  parlor  that 
was  hardly  ever  used,  with  its  three  windows  looking  on  the 
street.  But  Hope  and  Mrs.  Grandon  Cope  had  made  it  beau- 
tiful with  flowers,  and  had  persuaded  Aunt  Ildy  to  put  up 
fresh,  simple  white  muslin  curtains  ;  and  they  had  looped  back 
these  with  leaves  and  vines,  and  set  the  blinds  aslant,  by  some 
ingenious  device,  so  that  the  autumn  sunshine  just  crept  in 
across  a  pleasant  shade. 

I  did  not  hear  a  word  the  minister  said.  I  wondered,  as  he 
ended,  if  I  could  be  truly  married,  the  solemn  sentences  had 
gone  over  me  so.  I  almost  wanted  to  cry  'out  that  I  had  not 
heard  —  I  had  not  thought ;  to  bid  him  say  them  over  again. 

But  they  said  I  was  married.  Richard  was  by  my  side  ;  the 
strong  claSp  of  his  hand  when  he  had  made  the  promise  was 
warm  about  mine  still ;  they  came  up  and  kissed  me,  and  con- 
gratulated, and  called  me  Mrs.  Hathaway. 

Then  I  had  to  cut  the  cake,  and  to  have  the  first  piece ;  and 


A    STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  351 

whether  I  ate  it,  or  what*became  of  it,  or  what  it  was  like,  I  do 
not  know. 

There  was  more  talk,  more  calling  me  by  that  new,  strange 
name,  a  moving  and  changing  of  groups,  a  pleasantness  and 
laughing,  good-bys  that  seemed  to  come  close  upon  the  greet- 
ings, a  thinning  of  the  room,  a  driving  off  of  some  carriages ; 
and  then  Richard  asked  me  if  I  were  ready  to  go  home. 

There  had  only  been  cake  and  wine  and  fruit  at  the 
wedding ;  Richard  had  insisted  upon  the  dinner  being  at  the 
Farm.  Aunt  Ildy  and  Uncle  Royle  and  Hope  were  to  ac- 
company me  to  my  new  home,  and  see  me  installed  there,  and 
then  drive  home  quietly  in  the  twilight. 

So  Richard  put  me,  in  my  sunshiny  silk  and  my  white  gloves, 
with  the  soft,  light  lace  upon  my  hair,  into  the  carriage,  — 
the  state  carriage  of  New  Oxford,  which  bore  brides  to  their 
homes,  and  mourners  to  the  graves,  —  and  we  went  out,  in  the 
bright  October  noon,  over  the  same  pleasant  country  road  we 
had  traversed  hundreds  of  times  before,  yet  every  step  of 
which  was  new  to-day.  For  it  was  the  beginning  of  our  life- 
path  together. 

I  was  a  bride  ;  the  bridal  veil  was  over  my  head  ;  it  was 
my  husband  by  my  side.  The  little  children  had  stood  at  the 
top  of  the  lane  to  see  us  pass. 

Was  this  the  long  romance  that  Margaret  Edgell's  bridal 
day  had  seemed?  After  all,  it  was  more  like  something  in 
the  way  ;  it  was  strange,  and  short ;  an  interruption  half 
comprehended,  a  ceremony  half  entered  into,  between  the 
dear,  old,  life-grown,  confiding  love  and  need,  and  the  coming 
new  and  nearer  life,  —  the  life  that  was  to  prove  our  souls  ; 
that  was  to  be  all  there  was  for  our  two  human  hearts  between 
this  day  and  the  grave. 

Home  had  not  yet  begun.  It  was  high  festival,  sitting 
there  at  the  head  of  Richard's  table,  in  my  wedding  dress, 
while  Martha  waited. 

She  had  put  her  pride  into  the  wedding  dinner,  the  good 
Martha ;  if  I  had  been  some  strange,  splendid  lady,  come 
from  a  far  place,  she  could  not  have  given  me  more  careful 
honor.  The  honor  that  lay  upon  me  was  the  being  Richard's 


352  HITHERTO: 

wife.  Any  woman  whom  he  had  brought  there  would  have 
been  the  same  ;  and  I,  whom  she  had  seen  all  my  life,  was 
new  and  strange  to  her  this  day ;  to  be  treated  with  a 
strangerly  deference.  I  was  Mrs.  Hathaway. 

I  think,  at  the  same  time,  that  it  was  not  I  whom  she  had 
always  wanted  in  that  name  and  place.  Yet  Richard  had 
wanted  me,  and  I  had  come.  That  was  enough. 

We  walked  up  the  Long  Orchard  after  dinner.  It  was 
beautiful,  in  the  shade  of  the  broad  arcades,  with  the  fruit- 
ripeness  among  the  branches  and  at  our  feet.  It  was  beauti- 
ful away  off  over  the  hills,  where  the  rest  lay.  The  hidden 
brook  sang  in  the  autumn  stillness. 

We  sat  on  a  rustic  bench  that  Richard  had  put  there  lately. 
Aunt  Ildy  made  me  take  up  my  dress  carefulty.  I  felt 
queerly,  as  if  I  were  out  visiting  in  some  strange  way  with 
her  ;  to  go  back  again  with  her  when  the  day  was  over  ;  above 
all,  that  I  was  responsible  to  her  if  any  harm  befell  my  un- 
wontedly  rich  attire.  She  was  really  quite  splendid  in  her 
black  silk  and  her  old  English  thread  laces. 

I  cannot  remember  what  we  talked  about.  It  was  a  strange, 
dreamy,  unreal  day. 

After  they  had  gone,  —  while  they  were  going,  and  Richard 
helping  them  off,  —  I  slipped  away  to  Martha. 

"  Where  are  my  trunks?     Come  help  me,  quick  !  " 

And  running  upstairs  with  her,  I  unlocked,  not  the  large, 
new  one,  which  held  Mrs.  Hathaway's  things,  —  the  unworn 
wardrobe,  —  but  a  little  one,  in  which  were  gowns  of  Anstiss 
Dolbeare's. 

I  chose  a  plain  delaine ;  and  I  pulled  out  of  a  box  some 
soft,  deep-blue  ribbons.  I  ran  away  with  these  to  the  little 
room  that  had  been  mine  in  my  stays  at  the  Farm,  shut  my- 
self in,  took  off  my  dress  and  veil,  remembering,  even  then, 
with  the  fear  of  Aunt  Ildy  before  my  accustomed  eyes,  to 
shake  out  the  silken  breadths  carefully  across  the  bed,  and  to 
fold  the  costly  lace  beside  it ;  and  then,  in  a  minute,  I  was 
Anstiss  Dolbeare  again,  in  my  quiet  brown,  tying  blue  rib- 
bons in  my  hair  and  at  my  throat. 

Of  course  Richard  was  looking  for  me.     I  listened  at  the 


A    STORY  OP    YESTERDAYS.  353 

door,  and  heard  his  step  in  the  hall.  I  waited  till  he  turned, 
and  then  ran  lightly  and  swiftly,  came  up  behind  him,  and  laid 
my  hand  in  his  as  he- stood  in  the  doorway. 

"  My  little  Nansie  !  " 

How  tenderly  he  took  me !  .  How  glad,  how  gratefully,  he 
looked  at  me ! 

"  My  little  wife,  —  in  her  brown  dress  ! " 

"  I  wanted  to  get  home,  Richard.  I  have  a  good  mind  to 
go  and  make  short-cake  for  tea." 

23 


354  HITHERTO ! 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

UP  THE  RIVER. 

"  WE  are  going  our  bridal  trip  to-day,  Nansie,"  Richard 
said  to  me,  standing  with  me  on  the  broad  door-stone,  in  the 
October  morning  sunshine. 

It  was  the  morning  after  our  marriage. 

Red  Hill  was  scarlet  and  brown,  and  golden,  and  evergreen, 
before  us.  The  elms  were  dropping  amber  in  the  door-yard. 
In  the  sunshine  and  the  air  together,  were  rich,  sweet  smells 
of  autumn.  It  would  be  a  day  of  life  and  glory,  with  a  warm, 
delicious  heart  of  noon. 

"  I  am  going  to  take  you  where  you  have  never  been." 

He  could  take  me  nowhere  in  the  world,  that  da}'-,  where  I 
had  ever  been  before.  It  was  all  new.  "  The  evening  and  the 
morning  were  the  first  day." 

He  and  Martha  managed  it.  I  knew  nothing  of  what  went 
into  the  covered  basket,  or  of  who  carried  it  awa}-,  or  whither. 
Richard's  hands  and  arms  were  free  for  me  when  we  set  off 
together,  walking  up  through  the  corner  of  the  Long  Orchard, 
and  so  out  into  the  Pine  Lane. 

All  down  the  avenue  it  was  green  and  still  as  ever.  Sum- 
mer was  shut  in  here,  saying  her  last,  sweet  prayers,  while 
autumn  blazed  triumphant  on  the  hills. 

We  came  out  on  the  knoll.  Down  in  the  little  evergreen 
coverts  burned  fires  of  beauty.  Vines  trailed  in  crimson 
light.  Common  little  shrubs  stood  up,  royally,  turned  into 
pyramids  and  globes  of  gold.  Underneath  were  white  and 
purple  stars,  shining  evciywhere.  The  beds  of  wild  aster 
were  filled  with  bloom.  The  barberries  were  hung  with  coral. 
The  bittersweet  had  burst  all  its  tawny  husks,  and  showed  its 
bright  vermilion  beads. 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  355 

The  year  had  on  its  diadem  for  this  our  bridal  time,  and 
all  up  and  down  its  robe  were  jewels.  The  breath  of  a  per- 
fected blessing  was  abroad. 

Richard  did  not  say  this,  or  any  poetry,  to  me,  as  we  sat 
there.  He  was  a  silent  man.  He  was  only  very  loving  and 
very  happy ;  and  he  had  taken  me  out  into  this  perfect  day, 
to  keep  it  where  it  was  the  brightest.  The  fine  instinct  and 
the  joy  were  in  him  ;  at  that  moment  I  could  do  without  the 
words. 

We  walked  on,  down  one  of  the  little,  mysterious  paths  that 
branched  into  the  woods.  It  wound,  and  wound,  by  moss 
and  stone,  and  stump,  and  springing  water.  It  was  carpeted 
with  pine  needles  .sometimes,  and  sometimes  with  the  fallen 
splendors  of  the  maple,  and  was  sometimes  green  on  either 
hand  with  the  late-growing  ferns.  It  came  out  at  last  beside 
the  river.  We  were  two  miles,  and  more,  from  home  ;  }7et  all 
this  lovely  woodland,  clown  to  the  river  brink,  was  part  of 
Hathaway  Farm.  It  had  been  larger  yet ;  the  largest  farm  in 
all  that  county ;  but  much  of  John's  part  had  been  sold.  For 
the  rest,  and  for  his  sister's,  Richard  was  still  paying  a  rent ; 
but  he  had  bought  in  many  of  Mrs.  Kingsdon's  acres,  and  he 
hoped  to  own  the  whole,  in  years  to  come,  and  keep  it  in  the 
name. 

I  did  not  see  what  he  had  brought  me  for,  till  we  had  come 
close  down.  Down  to  where  a  low  river-wall  was  built  against 
the  bank,  and  long  willow  branches  bent  over  and  dipped  into 
a  sheltered  cove. 

A  little  boat  —  dark  green,  with  stripe  of  white,  her  oars 
dark-bladed,  then  freshly  white  up  to  the  rowlocks,  then  dark 
again  for  handling  —  lay  moored  against  the  rocks. 

"  That  is  your  wedding  present,  Nansie." 

There  had  been  an  old,  leaky  boat  upon  the  river,  in  which 
the  boys  and  men  went  fishing,  or  up  after  lilies  ;  but  for  years 
past  nothing  fit  for  pleasure-rowing.  It  was  a  good  way  from 
home,  and  the  Hathaways  were  busy  people  who  mostly  took 
their  pleasures  as  they  came,  among  their  work ;  like  melon 
vines  in  cornfields. 

"  But  now,"  said  Richard,  "  we'll  make  holidays  here." 


356  HITHEETO: 

He  put  me  in  at  the  stern,  spreading  my  shawl  for  me. 
The  covered  basket  was  between  the  seats. 

How  deep  and  dark  the  water  was,  under  the  banks  !  How 
still  and  smooth  it  ran,  even  out  in  the  middle  current  where 
the  sun  glanced  down,  and  the  oars  tossed  up  sparkles  ! 

We  floated  out,  out  of  the  very  world,  into  a  strange  still- 
ness, and  up  a  wondrous -opening  avenue  of  glory.  In  all  my 
life  I  had  never  been  on  the  river  in  such  a  little  boat  before. 

That  singularly  dark  water  —  the  bed  of  the  river  here  was 
a  deep,  black  mud  —  threw  up  marvellous  reflections ;  and 
all  the  October  splendor  was  heaped  and  showered  upon  its 
shores. 

Sumachs  thrust  their  lances  of  flame  out  from  under  the 
brown  alders ;  woodbines  flung  their  crimson  draperies  over 
the  dark,  heavy  cedars  ;  willows  bent  and  dipped  their  yellow 
wreaths  ;  on  the  rocks  were  many-shaded  mosses,  purple,  and 
gray,  and  madder ;  coarse  river-grasses  kept  their  green, 
springing  and  swaying  over  in  full  curves  from  their  dark 
hussocks ;  the  magnificent  beds  of  the  pickerel-weed,  with 
their  great  calla-shaped  leaves,  heaped  themselves  luxuriantly 
still. 

Down  in  the  underworld  of  water,  all  was  clear  and  perfect 
as  in  the  air.  There  were  garlands,  and  stars,  and  globes,  and 
arches ;  grottoes  and  aisles ;  roofs,  pavements,  and  pillars, 
resplendent  with  living  gems.  Everything  completed  itself, 
and  showed  how  only  half  was  ever  on  the  earth.  The  little 
islets  were  like  green  planets,  perfect  in  beautiful  space. 
Irregular,  lichened  rocks,  duplicated,  spread  glorious  wings, 
like  shapes  of  life.  Sometimes,  when  a  wave  was  made  in 
rowing,  Richard  would  lift  his  oars  and  pause,  to  see  it  spread 
and  break,  shattering  all  this  splendor  into  quivering,  pulsing 
circles,  that  trembled  up  and  up,  shifting  and  undulating, 
melting  and  changing,  magnifying  and  diminishing,  like  a 
world  broken  up  in  a  kaleidoscope. 

What  a  wedding  journey  it  was  !  Away  from  everything, 
yet  having  everything,  in  a  wondrous  glory,  to  ourselves. 

Did  Richard-know  it  all?     All  that  he  was  bringing  me  to? 

All  along  the    same,   yet   endlessly  different.     The   same 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  357 

burning  letters,  in  ever  new  words  and  lines.  The  same  light 
above,  the  same  depth  below. 

Bend  after  bend  ;  vista  after  vista ;  rounded  curves,  that 
seemed  to  make  an  end ;  then  fresh  outlet  and  onlet,  deeper 
and  deeper  into  the  stillness  and  the  beauty ;  a  long  poem, 
with  ever-recurring  refrain. 

"  God  must  mean  it  very  much,"  I  said,  thinking  it  out 
aloud. 

"  What?  "  asked  Richard. 

u  What  he  says  in  colors.  He  puts  them  everywhere,  and 
over  and  over." 

Richard  was  silent  then,  as  he  always  was  when  I  grew 
mystical.  It  was  a  long,  long  time  since  I  had  been  mystical 
with  him  before.  Or  even  very  often,  with  myself.  Life  had 
put  its  plain,  hard,  practical  things  upon  me  in  these  last  past 
times.  With  the  beginning  of  my  new  life  sprang  up  again 
within  me  this  interior  impulse  that  could  vlie  dormant  long, 
and  still  be  vital.  It  was  strange  how  color  touched  it, 
always. 

Richard  was  silent ;  not  avertedly  ;  he  was  simply  not  out- 
wardly responsive.  I  was  disappointed.  I  did  so  want  him 
to  read  and  interpret  with  me. 

I  went  on  thinking,  all  alone. 

"It  is  in  the  heavens  and  the  earth ;  and  in  the  heaven 
beyond  the  earth.  It  is  the  wall  of  the  New  Jerusalem ;  the 
mystery  that  outlines  and  reveals  the  City,  and  that  also, 
until  we  attain  to  it,  holds  us  out.  It  dips  down  and 
touches  all  things  with  its  light.  But  the  light  shineth  in 
darkness,  and  the  darkness  comprehendeth  it  not." 

My  heart  swelled  with  great  longing  and  dim  apprehension  ; 
with  a  sense  of  holy  things  to  be  revealed  and  brought  close ; 
of  the  will  to  be  done  on  earth  as  it  is  in  heaven,  and  the 
glory  made  complete,  as  here  the  beauty  in  the  water  answered 
to  the  beauty  above. 

God's  finger  touched  the  world,  writing  his  signs  upon  it. 
His  finger  also  touched  our  lives,  stirring  their  love  into 
beauty.  We  must  go  reading  and  learning  through  all  the 
years.  Must  we  not  read  together? 


358  HITHERTO: 

I  laid  my  hand  on  Richard's,  as  he  rested  on  his  oars.  He 
took  them  in,  drew  me  beside  him,  and  put  his  arm  about  me. 
"We  floated  idly,  in  the  beautiful  shade  and  stillness,  dropping 
back  a  little  in  the  river-current. 

"  We  must  be  married  in  the  spirit,  Richard,"  I  whispered, 
resting  in  his  strong,  loving  hold. 

"  I  am  married  to  you,  Anstiss,  through  and  through ; 
every  thought  and  fibre  of  me." 

I  was  happy ;  but  there  was  something  not  quite  satisfied. 
Would  he  not  take  me  into  the  deep  places  of  his  life? 
Would  he  not  care  for  the  depths  of  mine  ? 


THE   SILENT  SIDE. 

Richard  rowed  up  the  still  river,  with  the  glory  on  either 
hand.  Before  him  was  the  face  of  Anstiss ;  pure,  peaceful, 
thoughtful. 

It  was  as  if  through  his  life  flowed  just  such  a  river ;  hushed, 
shut  in  ;  away  from  the  world. 

Secluded  between  deep  banks  ;  up  above  were  the  dust  and 
hurry  and  toil  of  high  roads  and  field-faring  men ;  here  it 
was  holy  holiday,  always.  But  the  river  could  not  pour  itself 
forth, ( running  out  into  life  on  every  hand ;  it  must  hold  its 
silent  way,  growing  by  that  which  should  be  continually 
poured  in. 

Down,  far  down,  shone  the  glory  of  the  heaven  and  the 
beauty  of  the  earth  ;  true  in  its  true  profound  ;  but  none  could 
enter  under  their  arches,  into  the  far-reaching  aisles,  or,  putting 
forth  a  hand,  grasp  and  bring  back  the  golden  branches. 
Thought  and  beauty  were  in  him  like  this.  A  touch  resolved 
them  into  shadows ;  only  fact  stood  fast,  and  might  be 
measured  and  handled  and  talked  about. 

The  river  of  his  heart  was  full  of  answering  blessedness, 
this  day  ;  of  rounded,  perfect  pictures,  half  a  dream  ;  which  half 
he  could  hardly  say.  He  felt  its  far-off  springs  away  up  in 
the  mountain  places  of  being,  where  souls  are  solemnly  alone ; 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  359 

where  the  beginnings  of  life  are  born,  and  continually  renewed, 
beside  the  throne  of  God. 

He  know  not  why  the  river  hushed  him  so  ;  where  were  the 
awe,  and  the  tenderness,  and  the  close,  beautiful  withdrawal, 
and  the  bosom-holding  of  great  Love. 

He  only  knew  that  it  had  been  so  to  him  many  times  before, 
alone  ;  that  it  was  doubly,  dearly  so  to-day,  as  he  felt  before- 
hand that  it  should  be. 

"  I  saved  it  up  for  her  all  this  time.  I  was  jealous  of  it  for 
her.  I  should  never  have  brought  her  here,  unless  —  But  it 
had  to  be  some  time,  as  it  is  to-day.  I  must  have  had  her 
here. 

"  'In  the  midst  there  is  a  River  ; '  there,  where  there  is  no 
more  sea. 

"  '  In  the  midst  there  is  a  River.' " 

It  repeated  itself  over  and  over  in  his  mind ;  yet  he 
thought  not  about  his  thinking.  If  it  had  come  to  his  lips,  it 
would  have  opened  a  joy  of  thought  to  Anstiss  ;  a  joy  that  the 
thought  had  been  with  him. 

What  did  come  to  his  lips  was  :  — 

"  I  should  not  like  to  live  where  there  was  not  a  river  near. 
I  don't  believe  I  ever  could." 

" Have  you  been  here  much,  Richard? 

"  Yes ;  I  know  it  all.  It  has  been  like  the  Pine  Lane, 
Anstiss.  It  is  one  of  your  places." 

She  longed  for  the  deep  places  of  his  life  ;  to  be  taken  into 
them  with  him.  How  could  she  not  see  that  this  was  it,  — 
her  very  longing?  How  could  she  not  see  what  it  stood  for 
with  him  having  her  here  beside  him  ?  How  the  untranslated 
signs  were  yet  signs  to  his  soul  of  what  was  in  God's  Soul 
also  as  he  made  them? 

"  See  that  red  oak,  Anstiss ;  in  there  among  the  brown, 
high  back,  in  the  field.  It  was  a  good  thing,  its  getting  there, 
among  the  walnuts.  Somehow,  things  do  seem  to  get  into 
the  right  places  ;  it's  wonderful  how." 

His  eye  ran  from  tint  to  tint ;  one  needed  the  other ;  the 
carbuncle  of  the  oak,  and  the  walnut  brown ;  the  scarlet  of 
the  creepers  and  the  deep,  sombre  shadow  of  the  evergreens ; 


360  HITHERTO: 

flame-color  and  tender  yellow  kissing  each  other  in  the  maples  ; 
the  bronze  of  the  ash,  and  the  mellow  gleam  of  the  chestnut ; 
the  soft  blue  of  heaven  interspacing  and  enfolding  all.  You 
leaned  against  the  restful  contrast ;  there  was  asking  and 
answering  ;  there  were  chords. 

"  It  is  like  a  tune  in  a  church,"  he  thought  to  himself;  but 
he  did  not  say  so,  because  he  could  not  have  told  why.  "  You 
get  one  part,  and  it  makes  you  want  another.  You 'know 
what  must  come  next,  though  you  never  heard  it  before." 

"  God  must  mean  it  very  much,"  Anstiss  said  then. 

It  was  not  that  the  word  repulsed  him  ;  but  that  below 
words  his  thought  moved  unformed.  It  had  touched  him,  — 
the  tender  scale  in  color,  —  striking  harmonies  to  the  spirit, 
like  the  harmonies  in  sound ;  prophesying  and  fulfilling. 

Anstiss  reached  for  the  meaning ;  the  word  that  the  color 
and  the  music  brought.  She  questioned  ;  analyzed. 

Richard  hushed  himself  before  these  things,  always ;  he  let 
his  spirit  be  played  upon,  like  Eolian  harp-strings ;  he  knew 
not  what  it  was  that  stirred.  He  let  the  glory  touch  him ;  as 
the  rainbow  comes  down  among  the  tree-tops  in  a  field,  and 
rests  its  pillars  on  the  very  grass.  He  was  content  that  it 
should  shine. 

It  was  a  beautiful  thing  to  this  son  of  nature  to  be  alive  ;  to 
move  and  breathe  among  these  dear  concordances  ;  he  left 
them  simply  to  the  "  goodness  and  the  grace  ;  "  they  were,  and 
he  was  glad. 

He  would  not  have  quoted  the  Scripture,  nor  understood 
that  in  his  heart  were  the  words  of  the  Christ ;  yet,  as  Anstiss 
spoke,  something  warm  within  him,  under  his  silence,  recog- 
nized with  a  tender  humbleness  the  continual  gift. 

"  For  the  Father  loveth  the  Son,  and  giveth  all  things  into 
his  hands." 

This  was  what  God  "  meant,  so  much,"  in  his  beautiful 
world.  In  his  world  where  things  got,  wonderfully,  into  their 
right  places.  Where  Richard  and  Anstiss  Hathaway  were  face 
to  face,  this  day  of  utter  peace.  Where  they  were  to  be,  side 
by  side,  alwaj-s,  while  the  world  should  be  for  them.  It  was 
just  His  good  pleasure,  giving  his  little  ones  the  kingdom. 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  361 

"  I  am  married  to  you,  Anstiss,  through  and  through. 
Every  thought  and  fibre  of  me." 

The  whole  man  spoke  ;  out  of  a  whole,  loyal  heart. 

Just  as  much  a  little  while  after,  with  not  a  word  between, 
when  he  pushed  the  boat  in  under  a  sloping,  bank ;  where 
cedars  and  alders,  elders  and  willows,  barberries  and  black- 
berries, with  grape-vines  and  woodbines  flung  among  and  over 
all,  grew  as  they  do  grow  beside  New  England  streams  ;  and 
far  up  into  a  quiet  shade  ran  -a  little  pathway. 

"Are  you  hungry,  Nansie?  It  is  time  my  little  wifie  had 
her  dinner." 

It  was  so  dear  to  him  that  henceforth  he  should  feed  and 
care  for  her,  of  right  and  always. 


362  HITHERTO  : 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

HOME. 

I  LIKED  so  much  the  little  beginnings  of  my  own  house- 
keeping. 

Aunt  Ildy  brought  over  to  me  my  mother's  silver,  marked 
with  her  name.  I  never  knew  about  it ;  she  had  kept  it  for 
this  time. 

There  were  pretty  little,  old-fashioned,  small-bowled  tea- 
spoons, with  scallop  shells  upon  the  handles.  There  was  a 
quaint,  low,  long-lipped  cream-boat  with  a  high,  slender  loop  for 
a  handle,  and  there  was  a  broad,  shallow  basin,  in  whose  pure, 
gleaming  round  I  delighted  to  turn  and  rinse  the  delicate 
little  cups  that  had  been  Richard's  mother's.  I  could  not 
use  it  for  a  slop-basin.  For  this  I  kept  a  commoner  one,  be- 
hind the  teapot,  out  of  sight. 

I  had  them  all  upon  the  breakfast  table  the  morning  after 
they  came,  with  the  bright,  new,  crimson-chequered  cloth  also 
that  was  among  my  furnishings.  The  silver  looked  so  pretty 
on  it,  and  the  glass  vase  filled  with  white  double  asters,  and 
golden,  bronze-streaked  nasturtiums  and  green  leaves,  was  so 
fresh  and  lovely  in  the  middle. 

Richard  liked  my  replacings.  I  put  away  nothing  that  he 
specially  loved,  but  I  made  a  new-married  look  about  all  with 
my  bridal  belongings. 

He  had  had  the  little  breakfast-room  —  and  other  rooms  — 
repainted  before  I  came.  The  wainscots  in  this  were  now  of 
a  full,  creamy  buff,  —  my  favorite  color.  I  have  liked  the  smell 
of  fresh  paint  from  that  time  until  now.  It  seems  as  if  all  the 
world  were  new,  and  every  morning  were  the  first  one. 

It  was  the  holiday  season  of  the  year,  upon  the  farms.  The 
summer  grains  were  gathered  ;  the  winter  grains  were  sown  ; 


A   STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  363 

only  the  apples  and  the  root  crops  were  being  got  in,  and  the 
old  cider-mill  was  grinding  clear,  bright  juices  that  we  drank 
and  gave  our  friends  new  from  the  vats.  It  was  our  wedding 
wine. 

We  carried  some  one  day  to  Mrs.  Cryke.  The  cider  was  the 
errand  that  he  made,  but  Richard's  object  was  to  take  his  wife. 

He  made  me  wear  my  bonnet  with  the  white  ribbons,  and 
my  mazarin  blue  merino  dress.  The  winds  were  cold  now. 
We  were  in  November. 

For  the  cider  we  got  beer,  of  course  ;  and  much  welcome, 
and  many  thanks,  and  elbow-marks  of  admiration.  Mrs. 
Cryke  looked  at  us  as  the  old  and  solitary  do  look  at  the 
young  and  newty  married ;  as  upon  those  entered  into  a  beau- 
tiful myster}7,  new  and  separate  for  every  pair. 

"  The  best  of  the  farm,"  she  said,  leaning  forward  toward 
Richard,  and  underscoring ;  "  the  best  of  the  farm.  You 
always  bring  me  a  taste  of  that.  And  now  it's  a  sight  of  the 
little  wife,  —  in  the  newness.  The  wife  is  the  best  of  all,  —  to 
the  husband,  Mrs.  Hathaway,"  —  italicising  with  her  other 
elbow  at  me,  —  "  the  best  to  you  is  Mm  !  " 

How  the  elbows  marked  the  pronouns  and  the  antithesis  ; 
how  they  put  in  the  dash,  pausing  between  their  sweeps  either 
way  ;  how  the  whole  anatomy  of  the  woman  was  alive  with  her 
earnestness,  and  her  friendliness,  and  her  gladness  !  It  was 
good  to  have  been  married,  even  for  a  word  like  this. 

She  bent  aside  to  me,  presently,  with  an  elbow  held  up  be- 
hind my  shoulder,  as  speaking  with  a  particular  privacy :  — 

"  Did  you  ever  read  '  Sir  Charles  Grandison'  ?" 

I  had  read  it  years  before,  sitting  in  clear  Mrs.  Hatlmway's 
room,  where  the  seven  leather-bound  volumes  lay  in  the  little 
book-cupboard,  except  as  I,  in  my  visits,  brought  them  out, 
and  once,  when  she  had  lent  them  to  me  for  a  while. 

"  Long  ago,  —  yes,"  I  answered. 

"  Better  read  it  again,  now.  I've  got  it ;  lie  lent  it  to  me. 
Now  I'll  give  it  back  to  you.  Because,  you  see,"  she  added, 
bringing  her  other  elbow  up  before  me  in  a  still  closer  shelter, 
and  leaning  still  more  face  to  face  into  the  parenthesis,  — 
"  He's  — part  —  Graudison  !  " 


364  HITHERTO: 

Nothing  would  do  but  she  must  bring  them  out ;  also  some 
bottles  of  her  beer  to  carry  home  ;  ^and.  making  us  promise  to 
read  the  one  and  drink  the  other,  faithfully,  she  let  us  go ; 
shouldering  us  out,  by  way  of  lingering,  delighted  demonstra- 
tion ;  and  stood  there  by  her  door,  looking  after  us,  with  her 
arms  high  akimbo,  as  if  it  were  a  manner  of  benediction. 

These  quiet,  pleasant  goings  about  —  seeiugs  and  being- 
seen  —  were  our  honeymoon.  Two  or  three  times  Aunt  Ildy 
and  Hope  came  over  and  drank  tea.  Hope  drew  Aunt  Ildy 
more  and  more  into  a  genial  living.  For  Hope  herself  life 
seemed  just  as  full,  as  satisfying,  as  ever.  She  looked  on, 
apparently,  into  no  long,  dull  years,  with  Uncle  Royle  and 
Miss  Chisrn  growing  older  and  older,  the  latter,  perhaps, 
crosser  and  crosser  ;  as  Lucretia  said,  "  more  kind  o'  pudgicky, 
you  know  ;  "  she  dreaded  no  tiresome  routine  ;  all  was  glad 
and  fresh ;  every  day  began  with  a  glory  and  ended  with  a 
peace. 

Hope  had  no  wants  ;  the  thought  of  a  joy  was  joy  ;  you  could 
"  see  nothing  that  wasn't  there,  —  somehow." 

She  entered  so  into  the  joy  of  our  marriage.  "  You  see  it's 
something  you  can't  keep  me  out  of,"  she  said  to  me  one  day. 
"  The  goodness  and  the  realness  of  anything  like  that  go  such 
a  great  way.  Everybody  gets  some.  No  two  people,  nor  no 
five,  can  keep  the  whole.  Being  married,  and  being  born,  and 
being  converted,  and  coming  home  from  a  great  way  off  after 
along  time, — why,  they  spread!  The  whole  town  is  glad, 
and  takes  thought  about  it.  Or  else,  why  do  they  all  turn 
round  in  church  to  look  at  folks  that  have  had  a  happening  ? 
And  this  is  such  a  right,  beautiful  thing !  " 

Hope  took  nothing  just  like  other  people.  Not  even  pain, 
and  fear.  She  went  beyond,  always. 

We  were  talking  one  dajr,  —  it  was  linked  so  with  this  "  hap- 
pening "  of  ours,  —  of  the  thunder. 

"  I  do  not  think  you  were  half  so  frightened  as  the  rest  of 
us,"  I  told  her.  "  And  it  didn't  seem  to  stay  by  you,  — the 
awfulness  of  it,  —  as  it  did  with  me.  It  went  quivering  over 
me,  —  it  does  now,  sometimes, — just  as  those  blue  lights 
quivered  about  the  door-frames  after  the  storm  was  past. 


A    STORY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  365 

And  while  it   was  happening  —  O   Hope !    I   wouldn't  live 
through  that  again,  for  any  living  afterward  !  " 

"  Any  living?  O  Anstiss  !  You  don't  know  what  it  might 
be!" 

There  was  a  sort  of  rapt  intenseness  in  Hope's  face  as  she 
spoke.  I  remembered  that  a  gleam  of  it  had  been  across  her 
paleness  even  on  that  day. 

"  You  couldn't  have  been  afraid  !  "  I  cried.  "  I  wonder 
what  you  are  made  of !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Hope,  slowly  and  simply,  as  one  recalling  and 
examining  a  feeling  past,  "  I  was  afraid.  But  I  was  some- 
thing else,  too.  I  think,"  she  added,  with  a  quiet  kind  of 
earnestness,  "that  I  was  interested." 

"  Interested  !  Hope  Devine,  how  do  you  mean?" 

"  I  was  interested,"  she  answered,  with  the  same  abstracted 
simplicity,  "  to  see  what  God  would  do  with  me  next." 

She  was  always  so  sure  that  God  would  do  something  next. 
That  her  story  —  that  no  one's  story  —  was  ever  all  told 
and  done. 

We  had  Miss  Bremer's  lovely  first  book  to  read,  that  early, 
frosty,  firelighted  time,  —  the  "  Neighbors."  How  good  it  was 
for  me !  How  it  confirmed  my  certainties  —  showing  its 
kindred  simple,  pleasant,  not  too  poetic  or  romantic,  pastoral 
and  domestic  life  !  Reading  about  Bear  and  Fanny,  and  the  lit- 
tle sugar-cakes,  and  the  cow  Audumbla,  and  the  teas  on  Svano, 
—  yes,  even  of  ma  chere  mere  and  her  sharpnesses,  —  I  sa\y 
such  an  encouraging  and  indorsing  reflection  of  my  own  sur- 
roundings, and  my  own  cheer !  I  could  live  in  this  story,  as 
we  only  can  in  such  as  touch  and  illustrate  our  own.  My  life 
was  as  much  a  story  —  an  idyl  —  as  this.  That  was  what 
curiousty  ratified  even  my  hone}"  tnoon  content. 

And  so  the  snows  came  down,  and  the  bleakness ;  and 
Thanksgiving  came  and  went,  —  our  first  Thanksgiving  ;  and 
Christmas  was  near  at  hand  ;  and  the  deep  winter  closed  in 
around  Broadfields  and  the  Farm. 


366  HITHERTO: 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

SATISFIED? 

A  DAY  of  pain.  A  day  in  the  depths.  Reaching  hour  by 
hour  into  darkness ;  in  a  blind  struggle ;  longing  for  rest ; 
for  the  end  ;  any  end. 

Then,  —  again,  the  second  time  in  my  life,  — a  night  of  in- 
finite peace.  The  September  moon  glinting  in  at  the  blinds. 
Crickets  singing  in  the  sweet,  dry,  autumn  stubble. 

My  baby,  —  soft-breathing,  —  my  real,  little,  living  bab}r, 
by  my  side. 

Richard  gone  away,  with  a  smile  on  his  face,  into  the 
guest-chamber. 

Mrs.  Cryke  sitting  by  the  .low,  small  fire,  settling  little 
things  about  it  that  might  be  wanted. 

I  wondered  if  she  would  tend  the  baby  with  her  elbows. 

No.  She  only -talked  with  her  elbows.  She  did  everything 
with  the  quickest,  lightest,  tenderest  fingers. 

But  what  if  she  should  suddenly  need  punctuation  marks  ; 
the  baby  in  her  arms  ?  I  laughed  out,  gently,  at  the  fancy. 

I  think  she  was  frightened.  She  came  to  me  quickly,  lean- 
ing over  the  bed.  I  could  see  the  anxious  questioning  in  her 
raised  elbows  then. 

"Nothing,  —  nothing,"  I  said.  "I  am  only  so  happy." 
And  so  I  was.  We  laugh  more  but  of  our  moods,  than  at  the 
things,  always. 

"Well,  there,  don't  then,  dear,"  she  said,  soothingly. 
"  Leave  off  being  happy  till  morning." 

But  I  kept  waking  up,  for-  nothing  else  than  to  be  happy, 
all  night  long.  All  night  long  the  dear  little  breathing  was 
at  my  side. 

"  And  God  breathed  into  his  nostrils  the  breath  of  life." 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  367 

That  kept  coming  to  me.  God  had  begun  his  creation,  all 
over  again  for  me. 

"  What  will  Richard  say  in  the  morning?" 

He  had  gone  away  so  quietly  ;  only  with  that  kiss,  and 
'  look  of  shining  happiness  upon  his  face. 

In  the  morning  he  carne  in,  and  looked  at  us,  very  much  as 
if  he  were  afraid  of  us  both. 

"How  is  the  little  wife?  And  how  is  the  little  wife's  little 
man  ?  " 

That  was  all  he  dared  to  say,  or  could  say,  somehow. 

I  was  well  enough.  I  would  have  liked  to  have  had  him 
say  more. 

[Richard  Hathaway  had  not  shut  his  eyes  to  sleep  the  whole 
night  long.  All  night,  till  the  day  began  to  come,  he  had 
lain  in  a  deep  reaction  of  joy,  mutely  thanking  God.  Listen- 
ing for  any  sound  from  his  wife's  hushed  room.  Holding 
back  his  gladness,  lest  he  should  be  glad  too  soon,  or  too 
much.  Afraid  lest  some  terrible  reversal  might  be  even  yet. 

Once  he  stole  to  the  door,  that  was  ajar,  and  looked  in. 
They  were  all  still,  and  asleep.  Then,  after  the  cocks  began 
to  crow,  he  slept  also,  for  an  hour. 

After  he  had  kissed  his  wife  and  spoken  to  her  those  few 
words,  he  had  gone  away  with  tears  in  his  eyes  that  no  one 
saw. 

"  I  suppose,"  Anstiss  said,  slowly,  to  herself,  "  men  take 
it  for  granted  that  their  babies  will  be  born.  They  are  glad, 
but  they  haven't  been  through  the  awfulness,  the  blackness ; 
helping  God  find  a  life  in  the  dark.  Only  he  and  women 
know."] 

That  passed  by. 

My  brain  was  overstrained,  even  with  happiness  ;  and  when 
it  rested,  nty  soul  rested,  and  I  saw  more  rightly.  I  lay  in  the 
peace  of  my  guarded  room,  shut  up  to  the  luxury  of  thought, 
and  blessed,  continual,  new  possession.  I  rested  in  Richard's 
tenderness,  shown  in  every  watchful  care,  shining  down  upon 
me  and  my  baby  in  that  deep,  wistful  look  of  his  eyes,  so 


368  HITHERTO  : 

gentle  for  a  man,  so  brimming  with  what  came  to  eyes  onty, 
or  lay  upon  lips  unbent,  half  moved  with  undelivered  words. 

Richard  loved  me  with  all  that  love.  I  knew  it.  Was  I 
not  content  ?  Or  why  ? 

If  only  loving  me  so,  he  could  lay  his  strong  hand  on  mine 
and  lift  me  up  !  Lift  me,  always,  up,  and  up,  into  the  light ! 

If  he  did  not  stop  right  there,  in  just  his  happy  tenderness, 
most  like  a  woman's  —  almost  like  a  child's.  If  there  were 
only  a  grand  high  wisdom  with  it,  overshadowing  me,  reflect- 
ing to  me  God's  Face !  If  he  could  always  go  up  into  the 
mount  for  me,  and  bring  me  down  the  word,  the  answer ! 

"Why  did  I  demand  all  this  ?  Why  was  only  one  side  of 
me  happy  and  full  content?  Why  should  I  have  more  than 
other  women  ? 

I  lay  and  let  myself  be  blessed  with  that  which  came.  I 
was  blessed  then.  I  would  not  let  myself  look  at  that  shut- 
down longing. 

The  September  days  were  beautiful.  The  sounds  that  crept 
into  my  blinded  room  were  sublimated  sounds.  The  creak 
of  the  wagons,  the  voices  of  the  farm-men  as  they  came  and 
went,  the  low,  motherly  cluck  of  hens,  the  flutter  of  pigeons 
coming  down  for  crumbs  to  Martha's  door,  —  these  were 
sounds  of  heaven,  touching  upon  the  calm  wherein  I  lay,  a 
woman  who  had  brought  a  life  from  God  into  the  world.  I 
had  been  close  to  heaven.  Its  airs  came  back  with  me.  I 
heard  as  the  angels  hear. 

Shadows  flickered  in  upon  the  white  ceiling ;  shadows  of 
glorified  life ;  the  noise,  the  dust,  the  ache  and  tire,  dis- 
charged ;  only  the  beautiful  spirit  left,  as  it  sifted  through 
upon  my  rest. 

Mrs.  Cryke  was  a  minister  of  grace,  wings  and  all ;  for 
there  were  plumes  upon  her  elbows  to  me,  as  she  carried 
them.  She  held  them  over  my  boy  while  he  lay  upon  her  lap, 
fresh  bathed  and  robed,  shielded  lightly  with  soft  flannels. 
She  hovered  over  him  with  caressing  touches  upon  tiny  lips 
and  chin,  her  face  beaming  and  bowing  upon  him,  between 
outspread  wings,  like  a  cherub's. 

Mrs.  Cryke  could  do  everything.     Was  that  why  the  super- 


A   STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  369 

fluous,  anticipative  energy  flowed  out  so  at  those  upper  joints, 
before  it  came  down  to  her  hands  ?  Was  there  an  instinct  of 
fingers  there  ?  Or  was  i,t  the  beginning  of  wings  ? 

She  had  come  to  me  because  the  nurse  I  had  engaged  was 
taken  ill,  and  I  had  needed  her  sooner  than  I  thought.  She 
sta}'ed  because  we  liked  her  so.  Her  cat,  Solomon,  kept  house 
for  her,  but  I  am  pretty  sure  that  Richard  and  Putterkoo  got 
round  there  every  day  or  two,  not  unaccompanied  with  what 
Solomon  received  as  "  the  best  of  the  farm." 

There  was  in  Mrs.  Cryke  her  own  individual  streak  of  the 
abounding  New  England  quaintness.  She  amused  me  hourly 
with  her  sayings,  —  the  aptness  and  suggestiveness  of  them. 

The  second  day  after  my  baby  was  born,  she  went  to  a 
press  not  constantly  used,  in  my  room.  I  remembered  that 
the  morning  of  my  illness  it  stood  open,  left  so  after  some 
hurried  bringing  out  of  something  that  was  wanted.  I 
remembered  lying  and  looking  at  the  door  ajar,  in  lulls  of 
suffering,  with  a  half-delirious  feeling  that  the  agony  was 
behind  it  and  would  come  forth  upon  me  again. 

It  had  been  a  warm  noon-tide.  The  air  was  summer-hot ; 
but  at  night  it  changed,  and  since  then,  mountain  winds  had 
shaken  their  sparkles  through  all  the  atmosphere  and  made  it 
keenly  bright. 

"  I  declare  to  Moses!"  she  exclaimed,  in  an  undertone,  to 
herself.  "  If  here  isn't  day  before  yesterday  shut  up  in  this 
'ere  clusset ! " 

"  Don't,  for  the  sake  of  all  the  children  of  Israel,  let  it  out, 
then,  Mrs.  Cryke,"  I  cried  in  answer,  laughing,  from  the  bed. 

"Massytoous!  did  you  hear?  I  haven't  gone  and  stirred 
you  up?"  And  she  elbowed  toward  me.  "You  aint  to 
laugh  before  this  time  next  week  —  not  a  mite  I "  she  said,  sol- 
emnly, enforcing  the  solemnity  by  a  sweep  that  seemed  to 
gather  up  the  time  she  spolie  of,  and  to  thrust  the  days 
behind  her. 

"  Now,  I'll  do  the  talking,  and  the  laughing,  too  —  all  that's 
good  for  you  —  if  you'll  hold  still.      I  and  the  little  king ! " 
And  she  turned  to  hover  over  the  cradle,  where  a  small  nest- 
ling and  a  little  meditation  of  a  cry  began. 
24 


370  HITHERTO: 

"  As  for  the  yesterdays,  young  general,  —  the  days  when  you 
wasn't,  —  they'll  never  be  again,  you  know  ;  and  you'll  never 
,know  how  to  believe  they  have  been.  This  is  the  Year  One 
for  you !  But  they're  put  away,  and  more  or  less  of  'em  is 
shet  up  somewheres.  They  aint  always  pleasant  to  let  out, 
that's  a  fact !  But  to-day  is  always  big  enough  to  freshen 
'em." 

Mrs.  Cryke  and  Martha  got  on,  also,  in  the  loveliest  way, 
together.  The  elbows  had  always  some  new  admiration 
marks  for  doings  downstairs  ;  there  was  always  some  cheery 
story  to  tell  of  the  pleasantness  and  comfort  kept  there. 

"  She's  in  the  cider-suller,  now,"  was  the  bulletin  one  day. 
*'  Precisely  in  her  aliment.  A  muck  of  dirt  and  cobwebs 
behind  where  the  empty  barrels  stood."  The  elbow  went 
round  behind  her,  here,  and  indicated  the  dark  corner. 
"  Martha  says  she  hates  dirt ;  but  she  don't,  unless  it's  with  a 
kind  of  lovin '  hatred.  She  wouldn't  know  what  to  do  without 
it.  She  loves  it  as  the  Lord  loves  a  sinful  heart ;  for  the 
blessedness  of  making  it  clean  again  !  No  sin,  no  salvation." 

She  told  me  I  had  "just  everything,  and  one  to  carry,"  to 
make  me  contented.  "  House,  and  farm,  and  husband,  and 
girl,  and  now  this  little  SpeaJcer-of-the-House-of-Hepresenta- 
tives ! "  She  had  a  new  name  for  him  every  hour. 

"  I  am  contented,  and  thankful,"  I  said.  I  spoke  truly.  I 
went  further,  and  spoke  more  truly  yet.  "  But  I'm  not  satis- 
fied. I  don't  suppose  anybody  is." 

"  They  are  if  they  don't  expect  too  much  just  where  they 
can  lay  their  finger  on  it.  It's  all  round.  You  can't  get  the 
Lord  God  all  in  one  piece,  anywhere.  He  had  to  make  the 
heavens  and  the  earth,  and  all  that  in  them  is,  for  that.  You 
must  take  your  pieces  as  he  gives  'em  out,  one  at  a  time  ! " 

Her  elbows  circled,  indicatively,  great  horizons,  speaking 
of  the  Lord  God,  and  the  heavens  and  the  earth  through 
which  he  comes  down  to  souls,  and  a  quick  jerk  —  a  home- 
thrust  —  pointed  her  personal  application. 

They  were  given  to  me,  —  those  words  of  hers,  —  character- 
ized and  impressed  upon  me  by  her  oddities, —  to  be  laid  up 
among  the  "yesterdays;"  to  come  forth  when  their  hour 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  371 

should  be.  They  did  me  good  then ;  but  I  had  to  live  on,  and 
find  out.  They  waited,  as  the  Bible  waits  for  us. 

"  Satisfied ! "  she  broke  out  again,  afterwards.  "  I  don't 
know  as  we're  anywheres  commanded  to  be  satisfied.  We're 
to  be  content,  and  patient;  it's  the  jpromwwss  that  says  '  satis- 
fied ! '  —  Napoleon  Bonaparte's  beginning  to  squirm  down  there 
out  of  sight.  I  guess  he's  about  ready  to  be  dug  up." 

And  she  fairly  paddled,  with  elbows  outheld  and  quivering, 
toward  the  cradle. 


571  HITHERTO: 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE  SILENT  SIDE. 
AS  WELL  AS   HE  KNEW  HOW. 

"  I  SUPPOSE  it's  as  much  as  loving  ever  comes  to,  in  this 
world,  —  living  alongside. 

"  I  wonder  if  it  was  a  mean  thing  of  me.  to  take  her.  I 
wonder  if  she'd  have  found  more  in  somebody  else  ;  or  whether 
somebody  else  would  never  have  eome  ;  or,  supposing  he  had, 
if  it  would  have  turned  out  the  same.  The  same  for  her  as  it 
is  now  for  me,  —  living  alongside. 

"  It's  enough  for  me  to  be  by  her.  To  know  that  the  same 
things  will  happen  to  both  of  us ;  that  we  can't  run  apart 
and  lose  each  other,  in  all  this  world. 

"  Do  they,  though?  The  same  things?  It  don't  hardly 
seem  so.  '  Two  grinding  in  one  mill.  Two  in  the  same  field. 
Two  sleeping  in  one  bed.  One  taken,  the  other  left.'  — 
Where,  —  yes,  where,  Lord?" 

There  was  a  long  time,  then,  that  he  sat,  unthinking.  Not 
shaping  his  thought,  as  these  had  been  shaped.  Just  looking 
at  it  in  a  blind  mental  stare.  Looking  at  this  life  of  his ; 
the  riddle  that  it  was  ;  that  it  was  growing  more  and  more  to 
be. 

"  Five  years  ago,  to-day. 

"  He'd  have  been  a  nice  little  boy.     Talking  and  asking 
questions.     Learning  to  read,  perhaps.     Saying  little  hymns 
Sundays,  to  his  mother,  as  I  said  them  to  mine.     Maybe  he 
says  them  to  7ier,  now.  — Mother !  Little  Richie  !  Little,  little- 
Richie ! " 

The  man's  hand  was  clenched  hard  as  it  pressed  his  cheek 
leaning  on  it.  It  was  the  love  that  grasped  for  Ms  boy ;  the 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  373 

sign  of  the  thought  that  held  him  so  fast.  It  was  like  the 
mother's  holding  tightly  to  her  heart,  with  sobs,  the  little 
shoes,  the  little  nightgown,  —  any  little  thing  that  had  had- 
him  in  it,  —  if  she  opened  now  and  then  some  drawer  where  such 
things  lay.  Men  do  not  go  and  do  that,  often.  But  some- 
thing clutches  and  wrings,  —  holds  close  and  fast,  —  when  the 
thought  comes  that  is  like  a  tiny  presence.  They  do  not  tell 
women  of  these  moments,  either.  They  get  over  them  alone. 
Women  need  not  be  reminded.  Let  things  sleep,  if  they 
will. 

Anstiss  came  up  behind  him. 

"  It  is  five  years  to-day,  Richard,"  she  said,  as  if  he  had 
occasion  to  be  told. 

"  I  know  it,  dear.  I  was  just  thinking  of  it.  Just  think- 
ing what  a  nice  little  boy  he  would  have  been." 

He  put  his  hand  up  and  took  hers  that  lay  upon  his" 
shoulder. 

"Give  me  something!"  she  cried;  imperatively,  im- 
petuously. "It  is  so  hard  to-night.  I  have  been  bearing  it 
all  day." 

'  She  wanted  a  word  —  a  hope.     Some  man's  strength,  better 
than  her  own,  of  soul  and  faith,  to  hold  her  up. 

"  "We'll  go  and  take  a  ride,  Nansie.  You've  been  at  home 
all  day.  You  need  it,"  he  said  kindly,  and  stood  up  instantly, 
to  go  and  do  for  her. 

"  I'll  bring  Swallow  round  in  a  minute.  We'll  ride  out 
over  Pitch  Hill." 

She  let  him  go  without  a  word,  and  then  stood  still  and 
uttered  a  sharp  "  Ah  ! "  like  a  scream  kept  in  to  a  single  point. 

"  Pitch  Hill  will  be  no  nearer  heaven  !  " 

But  she  went  to  ride.  She  had  only  that  to  do,  unless  she 
stood  still  there  and  shrieked  it  out. 

And  Pitch  Hill  was  nearer  heaven,  though  she  might  not 
know.  For  the  calm  sunset  helped  her,  and  the  sweet  air ; 
and  heaven  flowed  in  upon  her,  silently,  from  the  deep,  human 
love  yearning  at  her  side.  Out  of  it,  though  unspoken, 
virtue  came.  Nothing  goes  back  quite  void,  into  man's  heart, 
any  more  than  into  God's. 


374  HITHERTO: 

Richard  was  cheerful ;  he  talked  of  pleasant  things  ;  simple 
every-day  talk  it  was  ;  he  thought  that  would  do  her  most 
good.  How  could  she  know,  therefore?  How  could  she 
guess  the  "Where,  Lord?"  that  had  been  the  heart-cry  of 
his  pain,  an  hour  ago? 

So  they  sat,  "  alongside." 

It  was  almost  two  years  since  the  child  had  gone.  Five, 
to-day,  since  he  had  been  born. 

They  were  neither  of  them,  all  the  time,  as  they  had  been 
to-day.  For  the  most  part,  they  lived  along,  as  others  do ; 
side  by  side  in  the  world,  that  was  in  so  many  things  a 
pleasant  world  for  them.  One  great  pain  had  come  into  it, 
one  great  joy  had  been  swallowed  down  into  darkness ;  but 
they  did  not  sigh,  or  cry,  always.  It  was  nearly  two  years 
ago. 

Settled  down,  as  people  say,  to  married  life.  Only  a  man 
settles  more  entirely  than  a  woman,  or  he  seems  to  do. 

Richard  Hathaway  could  not  stop,  often,  to  take  his  life  out 
and  look  at  it.  Its  great  fact  was  accomplished.  Out  of  his 
love-season,  the  time  of  his  doubt  and  longing,  he  passed  into 
calm  certainty  and  every-day  using  of  the  life  that  had  been 
given. 

He  had  no  such  questions  to  ask  as  Anstiss  had.  He  had 
wanted,  with  his  whole  heart  and  soul,  this  that  he  had  got. 
If  this  were  not  pure  and  full  happiness  for  him,  the  wide 
world  —  the  threescore  years  and  ten  —  did  not  hold  it  in  his 
behalf. 

For  Anstiss,  — for  any  woman,  —  who  knew? 

Man's  nature  —  his  part  —  is  forthgoing,  demanding. 
Love,  that  is  his  pursuit,  comes  to  a  woman.  Shall  she  take 
this  that  comes  ?  Is  this  the  right  love  ?  She  must  begin  by 
asking,  searching  herself.  Perhaps,  like  Anstiss  Hathaway, 
she  is  of  a  nature  that  keeps  asking,  searching  ;  testing  life 
all  through  at  every  point ;  testing  herself.  Yet,  for  the  mo- 
ments in  -which  she  thus  holds  her  soul,  palpitating,  under  the 
lens  of  its  own  scrutiny,  there  are  days  and  months  and 
years  when  she  just  goes  on.  You  may  breathe  deep,  however, 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  375 

or  you  may  only  breathe  from  the  top  of  your  lungs.  Very  few 

—  do  any  ?  —  live  from  their  utmost  depths. 

When  Richard  Hathaway  did  doubt,  —  did  test  himself, — 
it  was  to  ask  as  he  had  to-day,  —  "Was  it  right  by  her? 
Could  there  have  been  anything  better  for  her,  if  I  had  let  her 
alone?"  He  who  had  waited,  while  better  things  seemed 
near  her,  giving  them  their  full  opportunity,  asked  this.  Who 
had  only  loved  on,  as  he  could  not  help  loving,  until  one  day 
she  took  his  love  at  last,  blessing  him  immeasurably. 

Coming  now  through  the  meadow  lands  homeward,  below 
Pitch  Hill,  he  stopped  where  the  blue  gentians  grew,  and  went 
and  gathered  them  for  Anstiss. 

"  They  can  say  better  things  than  I  can,"  he  thought,  hold- 
ing their  delicate  stems  tenderly  as  he  came  back  to  her. 

He  kept  the  year  all  through  with  flowers,  as  Christians 
keep  a  year  of  prayers. 

They  did  say  things  for  him ;  they  told  of  the  blooms  in  his 
heart ;  they  were  words  that  satisfied  her  in  the  moments  when 
they  came. 

She  turned  and  held  her  face  up  to  him  for  her  thanks. 

"  You  are  so  good,  Richard !  " 

"  I'm  only  as  good  as  I  know  how,  Nansie.  That  isn't 
much." 

Why  did  he  always  put  himself  down  so?  Did  she  catch 
the  under-thrill  of  his  voice  that  would  have  trembled  if  he 
had  not  been  strong  ?  Could  she  feel  the  great  tide  of  will 
and  blessing  that  surged  through  him,  as  if  he  transmitted 
God's  own  throb  of  tenderness  for  her?  Did  she  find  all  that 
in  the  kiss  he  gave  her  thanks  ? 

He  went  himself,  when  they  got  home,  for  the  new  milk 
Martha  kept  for  her  from  May-Blossom's  "  strippings," 
lest  she  should  forget  to  drink  it.  He  stood  by,  smiling 
while  she  emptied  the  glass  of  its  pure,  rich  draught.  Anstiss 
had  not  been  strong  these  last  two  years. 

He  had  soothed  her  back,  in  his  own  ways  ;  they  had  not  been 
just  the  ways  she  asked  for  ;  they  had  been  signs,  not  speech, 

—  signs  only  of  a   simple,  every-clay  love ;  but  they  quieted 


376  HITHERTO: 

her ;  she  would  have  hated  herself  if  she  had  not  let  them 
comfort  her. 

He  went  away  with  something  bounding  in  his  heart  where 
his  own  questioning  and  wondering  had  been ;  a  joy  that  he 
had  served  her  and  she  had  smiled. 

"  I  don't  suppose  that  any  one  could  quite  look  out  for  her 
as  I  can,  after  all.  I  know  her  little  ways,  and  the  things  she 
needs  so  well. 

"  I  don't  believe  she  could  have  been  better  off  in  any  new, 
strange  life.  She  wants  hushing  and  quieting  down ;  it 
wouldn't  do  for  her  to  be  kept  on  the  strain. 

"  They  say  a  child  grows  up,  sometimes,  with  a  hankering, 
it  don't  know  what  for ;  something,  perhaps,  it  ought  to  have 
had  when  it  was  a  baby.  Nansie  never  had  any  mothering 
when  she  was  little.  Nobody  else  would  have  known  about 
that,  as  I  do." 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  377 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

NANSIE'S  WAYS  ;  WHY  SHOULDN'T  SHE  T 

"  IT  would  be  pretty  —  down  at  the  Knoll,"  said  Anstiss. 
It  was  summer-time  again. 

Richard  looked  round  with  a  smile.  His  smile  was  always 
so  full  and  so  beautiful  that  she  saw  no  unusual  fulness  in  it 
now. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  and  cool,  too.  Some  of  the  boys  can 
carry  down  things." 

Anstiss  waited  a  moment. 

"  You  haven't  any  —  objection?"  she  said,  hesitatingly. 
1      "  Not  a  bit.     It  is  the  best  thing.     Have  just  as  good  a 
time  as  you  can." 

"  That  was  dear  of  her,"  he  thought,  as  she  went  from  him 
into  the  house.  —  "  Dear  of  her,  to  think  of  that.  But  it's  all 
hers,  as  I  told  her  long  ago.  Hers  to  do  just  whatever  she 
likes  with.  And  if  she  is  happy  there,  —  why,  isn't  that  what 
I  kept  it  for?  I  don't  much  believe  in  Mrs.  Cope,  though." 

Anstiss  did  not  think  he  noticed.  Did  not  think  he  quite 
understood  her  half  reluctance,  and  her  thought  that  he  might 
have  the  same,  or  more. 

But  the  place  that  had  been  good  and  sweet  enough  to  take 
her  to  for  that  best  fulfilment  of  his  life,  was  none  too  good 
to  count  among  the  things  and  places  that  should  give  him 
power  to  fulfil  all  his  meaning  by  her,  —  to  "  make  her  as  happy 
as  the  day  was  long." 

With  all  his  goods — with  all  his  bests  —  he  did  endow 
her.  There  had  been  no  beauty,  no  sacredness,  for  him,  that 
could  be  less  sacred  and  beautiful  by  being  made  most  com- 
mon in  her  service. 

Walter    Raleigh  laid   down  his  mantle  for  the  feet  of  the 


378  HITHERTO: 

queen.  Richard  Hathaway  laid  down  rich  and  sweet  associa- 
tions that  had  wrapped  about  the  days  and  the  thoughts  of  his 
solitude,  desiring  them  to  be  handled,  trod  upon,  anything,  — 
so  that  they  might  be  the  richer  and  the  sweeter  and  the 
gladder,  now,  since  the  days  of  his  solitude  Avere  over. 

It  was  all  he  could  do  ;  it  was  the  bread  and  the  wine  ;  but 
the  spirit  and  the  life  were  the  gift.  We  live  among  signs  and 
sacraments ;  by  and  by  the  books  of  the  meanings  shall  be 
opened,  and  we  shall  see  all  holy  things  within  their 
parables. 

"  Let  us  come  over  to  the  Great  Mowing,"  Mrs.  Grandon 
Cope  had  said. 

She  had  company  at  South  Side.  She  had  kept  Anstiss  to 
tea  one  afternoon  when  she  had  driven  over,  and  had  intro- 
duced her  to  the  Cabinet  Secretary's  wife. 

The  Farm,  through  Anstiss  Hathaway's  friendship,  was  a 
kind  of  graceful  appanage  of  South  Side.  It  made  Mrs. 
Cope's  country  life  and  sphere  of  sway  larger,  more  varied  in# 
novelty,  more  beautiful.  These  people  who  lived  in  Wash- 
ington three-fourths  of  the  year  found  something  joyously 
fresh  and  rare  in  this  glimpse  of  utterly  different  things. 

And  Mrs.  Hathaway  of  Broadfields^  was  charming.  They 
came  to  see  her  as  they  would  go  away  into  any  still,  wild 
place  to  see  a  waterfall,  or  find  a  spring  that  bubbled  up, 
without  waiting  for  fashion,  in  a  wilderness,  having  a  flavor 
and  virtue  that  are  only  born  in  just  such  depths. 

Augusta  Cope  knew  better  than  to  bring  out  heaps  of  city 
people  to  see  these  tired  officials  ;  to  make  parties,  and  give 
dinners  ;  even  with  the  fair  attractions  of  South  Side  to  lend 
a  rural  qualifying.  She  took  them  quite  away,  —  except 
when  she  gave  them  absolute  stillness  and  rest,  —  to  Red 
Hill,  or  out  among  the  Ledges  ;  to  see  Mrs.  Cryke  and  drink 
beer  ;  or  over  to  Hathawa}^  Farm  and  "  our  old  friends." 

Nobody  entertained  with  such  perfect  genius  as  Mrs.  Gran- 
don Cope. 

"  She  was  just  so  about  the  West  Room,"  Richard  Hatha- 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  379 

way  went  on  thinking.  "As  if  she  mightn't  make  her  own 
home  here,  in  any  fashion  she  pleased !  "Why,  that's  the  way 
to  have  it  home.  It  isn't  those  -tilings  that  I  mind,  — ;  when 
she  comes  out,  and  gets  interested.  It's  onl}r  when  she  draws 
'  in  and  shuts  up,  and  I  feel  like  somebody  in  a  fairy  story,  that 
has  married  a  kind  of  a  spirit,  or  elf,  or  mermaid,  or  some- 
thing, that  has  ways  —  high-air,  or  deep-seaways  —  that  he 
can't  follow  her  in,  or  know  anything  about.  Yet,  after  all, 
there's  only  one  way. 

"  She  knows  I  like  mother's  ways,  for  mother's  sake,  and 
for  old  times.  But  when  they  were  mother's  ways,  it  was 
mother's  life  that  was  in  the  house  ;  it  was  her  day  4  now  it's 
my  wife's  day,  and  they're  her  ways.  "Why  shouldn't  her  turn 
come?  By  and  by,  perhaps,  —  even  yet,  —  they  will  be 
'  mother's  ways '  to  Nansie's  children." 

But  he  had  said  nothing  like  all  this  to  her,  when  she  had 
wanted  the  west  room  new  papered  and  carpeted,  and  the 
dark  chintz  hangings  taken  away. 

He  only  said,  "  Surely,  Nansie.  Do  as  you  like.  There's 
no  need  of  any  scruples  about  the  money." 

She  felt  he  was  kind,  as  he  always  was  ;  but,  as  always, 
she  scarcely  knew  half  his  heart,  and  he  seemed  scarcely  to 
know  half  hers. 

She  made  the  room  beautiful  with  her  own  fresh  taste. 
She  liked  full,  sunny  tints,  or  strong  and  deep  ones.  She 
cared  for  no  blue  or  rose  colored  fineries  in  such  wise. 

In  her  own  room,  which  had  been  Mrs.  Hathaway's, — 
which  had  always  been  Mrs.  Hathaway's,  —  without  making 
any  sudden  or  radical  change,  she  had  gradually  gathered 
about  her  much  in  the  cool,  shadowy  green  that  she  best  loved 
for  a  spot  to  really  rest  and  abide  in. 

In  this  guest-chamber,  she  put,  now,  a  carpet  of  rich  garnet 
shades,  that  glowed  like  a  warm  welcome  before  the  entering 
feet ;  the  walls  she  covered  with  a  soft  buff,  like  measured 
sunshine  ;  and  there  were  curtains  to  bed  and  windows  of  buff 
also,  hanging  full,  making  the  whole  place  mellow  and  glad, 
and  just  bordered  with  the  contrasting  crimson.  The-  buff 
china  that  she  remembered  in  her  lirst  beautiful  visit  to  the 


380  HITHERTO  : 

Farm,  stood  on  a  corner  shelf  draped  like  the  rest ;  and  for 
the  broad,  old-fashioned  toilet, 'flounced  and  bordered  in  like 
manner,  she  had  made,  in  potichoinanie,  —  buff  and  garnet,  — 
two  tall,  graceful,  stoppered  flagons  or  vases,  and  a  globe- 
shaped  covered  bowl,  that  was  filled  with  rose-compote. 

Mrs.  Grandon  Cope  said  the  room  was  lovely. 

"  Chiefly,  my  dear,  because  with  3Tour  pretty  freshening,  you 
have  kept  the  old  Hathaway  look  through  it  all.  Don't  give 
that  up.  You  can't  think  how  different  it  is  from  places  where 
people  turn  upholsterers  in." 

So  thejf  were  all  coming  out,  and  would  see  it. 

Anstiss  had  pleasure  and  pride  in  her  house-keeping. 

They  would  go  out  into  the  Great  Mowing,  so  magnificent 
when  all  the  hay  was  down. 

"  Nobody  else  has  anything  like  it  for  them,"  Augusta  said. 
"You  may  be  sure  of  that." 

Anstiss  had  on  a  white  dress,  and  stood  in  the  shady  old 
doorway,  when  they  came.  Martha,  in  a  "  spry-colored 
calico,"  moved  back  and  forth  across  the  farther  end  of  the 
long  hall,  with  lingering  step,  like  a  figure  in  the  back  scenes, 
on  for  effect. 

Hope  had  come  out  in  the  morning.  Aunt  Ildy  could  not 
leave  Uncle  Royle.  Hope  wore  a  brown  dotted  muslin,  and 
her  gleaming  hair  was  tied  with  a  brown  ribbon  that  lay  like 
a  shadow  in  the  gold.  Hope's  eyes  were  more  like  the  sun- 
shine —  fuller  fed  chalices  —  than  ever. 

Mrs.  Grandon  Cope  filled  a  great  space  around  her,  as  she 
alighted,  with  flowing,  brilliant,  delicate  French  lawn,  striped 
with  the  new,  vivid  shade  of  blue  ;  a  large  black  silk  cardinal 
swept  from  her  shoulders  over  this  and  parted  from  the  throat 
in  front,  showing  the  dress  ;  her  bonnet  was  of  the  finest  and 
whitest  straw,  lightly  adorned  with  priceless  black  lace  and 
azure  flowers. 

There  was  rose  color,  and  more  white,  and  violet,  with  laces 
and  ribbons,  and  pearl  and  primrose  tinted  gloves,  and  little 
white  mists  of  cobweb  pocket-handkerchiefs,  and  furlings  of 
fringed  parasols  like  dropping  butterflies,  as  the  several  car- 


A    STOUT   OF    YESTERDAYS.  381 

riages  set  down  their  occupants,  and  the  group  gathered  and 
pressed  gently  up  into  the  hall  over  the  wide  doorstone  ;  and 
the  whole  entrance  was  full  of  dainty  fabric  and  color,  and 
sounds  of  soft,  trained  speech,  and  rustle  of  motion. 

The  spry-colored  calico  stood  motionless  at  the  back. 

"  My  sakes,  and  gracious,  and  deliverance  !  Won't  there 
be  a  bloomin'-out  in  the  Great  Mowin'?  I  'spose  they  can  all 
eat,  like  other  folks,  though.  And  I  do,  therefore  and  whereas 
and  above  all,  hope  and  pray  there'll  only  turn  out  to  be  cream- 
cakes  enough ! " 

Richard  Hathaway  met  his  wife's  friends  at  the  top  of  his 
splendid  upland  field,  where  twenty-eight  acres  of  English 
grass,  close  as  the  stems  could  stand,  had  been  swept  down 
into  such  great  heaps  and  ridges  that  the  ground  it  had  grown 
upon  seemed  hardly  space  enough  to  toss  and  turn  it  in. 

A  dozen  men  and  boys  had  just  done  gathering  it  up,  dry, 
perfumy,  finished  into  mounds. 

Richard  was  in  his  white  shirt-sleeves,  rake  in  hand.'  For 
the  rest,  his  light  summer  waistcoat  was  as  fresh,  and  his 
trowsers  as  sharp  in  their  newly  ironed  creases,  as  Grandon. 
Cope's  own. 

He  stood  like  a  prince  upon  his  own  borders,  with  some 
sign  of  royalty  in  his  hand,  bidding  them  welcome. 

"  I  should  think  you  might  be  proud  of  him,"  whispered 
Augusta  Cope  to  Anstiss,  looking  on  with  a  pleased,  flushed 
smile. 

"  She  is.     Just  as  proud  as  she  can  be,"  said  Hope  Devine. 

It  was  in  moments  like  these,  when  Richard  showed  his 
manliest,  that  Anstiss  loved  him  best. 

Tenderness  makes  a  woman  grateful;  a  noble  manhood 
compels  all  her  deep  instincts  of  love. 


382  HITHERTO  : 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

THE    GREAT    MOWING. 

"  WHAT  is  it  like,  —  so  roomy  and  yet  so  full?  It  is  like 
something  that  makes  it  seem  beautiful  and  grand." 

We  walked  up  and  down,  in  the  clear,  clean  spaces,  among 
the  great  heaps.  In  and  out,  endlessly,  almost,  we  might  walk 
over  the  wide  sweep  and  swell  of  the  magnificent  field. 

"What  is  it  like,  Grandon?"  said  Augusta  Cope,  laughing. 
"  Hope  wants  to  know." 

"  It  is  like  a  great  camp." 

"It  is  like  a  city,  with  domes,  and  wide,  splendid  streets 
and  squares." 

"It  is  like  a  council  of  thrones." 

"  It  is  like  a  sea,  with  islands." 

One  spoke  after  another. 

Still  Hope  smiled,  and  waited. 

"  Not  enough,  or  not  right,  yet?  "  asked  Mr.  Cope. 

"Don't  they  all  seem,  too?  What  makes  them  grand?" 
she  questioned  shyly,  still  smiling. 

"  You  want  the  idea  behind,  —  the  archetype,"  said  Gran- 
don  Cope. 

"  Yes,  back  of  all,"  said  Hope. 

"  Do  you  think  you  can  get  it?  " 

He  was  interested  and  amused. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said,  in  her  rapid,  rippling  way.  "  It 
is  a  great  way  off  from  this  little  hay-field,  —  and  all  those 
other  things  might  be  between,  —  but  it  does  remind,  and  it 
is  true.  I  think  it  is  like  —  the  sky,  after  the  worlds  were 
swept  up ! " 

"  Well,  I  think  you  can't  get  behind  that,"  cried  the  Cabi- 
net Secretary's  wife. 


A   STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS. 

"  I  think  you  can,"  said  Grandon  Cope,  with  a  grave  quiet- 
ness. "That  only  'weaves  for  God  the  Garment  thou  secst 
him  by.' " 

That  was  a  long  way,  out  of  the  haj-field,  for  people  in 
"  clothes." 

Augusta  broke  the  silence. 

"  I  think  it  is  most  like  a  great,  big,  splendid  good  time, 
and  an  enormous  game  of  hide-and-seek.  I  wish  the  boys 
were  here." 

I  had  been  glad  to  know  that  the  boys  were  down  at  Field- 
port  with  th'eir  nurse  and  their  grandparents,  when  I  made  the 
party.  But  it  reminded  me  suddenly,  and  with  the  thrill  that 
those  other  words  had  already  given  me,  sent  a  flush  to  my 
cheek,  and  made  me  turn  away  my  face. 

The  boy  that  I  wished  were  here,  —  the  boy  in  his  sixth 
summer ! 

Grandon  Cope  was  walking  by  my  side.  We  were  the  last 
of  the  party. 

"  Many-chambered,  and  full.  Isn't  it  the  Heart  and  the 
Home,  that  all  these  things  '  seem  like,'  Mrs.  Hathawa}'?  " 

He  had  given  me  time  to  breathe  ;  time  to  put  back  what  had 
begun  to  come  with  a  rush,  before  he  spoke.  Then  he  said  it 
with  such  a  calm  kindness.  I  was  able  to  look  up. 

"  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Cope,"  I  answered  him,  warmly.  "  How 
did  you  know  ?  " 

"  It  has  been  in  my  mind  ever  since  I  came.  Ever  since  I 
saw  your  husband  standing  there,  in  the  midst  and  in  tiie 
ownership  of  all  this.  I  knew  what  it  must  be  to  him,  and  to 
you.  I  have  boys  to  love  and  to  hope  for,  Mrs.  Hathaway." 

It  was  a  great  deal  easier  after  that.  It  was  not  all  silk 
and  muslin  and  flutter  and  dainty  speech. 

Hope  knew,  too.  By  and  by  she  had  a  word  for  me.  She 
had  had  many  words,  in  these  years  of  which  the  third  was 
wearing.  Every  now  and  then  she  "  saw  "  something  for  me. 

"  Don't  you  see,  Anstiss,"  she  came  and  said,  "  that 
thoughts  are  things?  In  your  heart  you  have  a  pleasure  for 
him,  and  all  this  would  be  a  joy  with  you,  for  lum.  That  is 
the  real  part.  I  think  he  is  glad  in  something,  just  this  very 


384  HITHERTO  : 

now,  that  you  are  put  in  mind  how  glad  he  might  be.  This 
is  your  end  of  it.  Why  not  take  it  for  a  telling?  If  you 
had  him  here,  you  could  only  know  that  he  was  glad,  and  be 
glad  too.  It  is  just  a  thought  and  a  thought.  It  doesn't 
matter  what  the  word  between  is.  It  might  be  this  pleasant 
day  and  the  hay-field  ;  but  it  is  all  the  kingdom  of  heaven  !  " 

These  two  understood  best.  Nobody  else  came  straight  to 
my  want. 

We  went  and  sat  under  the  Four  Oaks.  The  men  were 
piling  the  hay  upon  great  wagons  that  went  from  heap  to 
heap,  down  in  the  lower  end  of  the  Mowing.  The  sun  was 
almost  level  low. 

They  had  thrown  up  the  hay  for  us  here,  purposely,  around 
and  between  the  trunks  of  the  trees.  The  air  was  heavy  with 
sweetness,  and  the  soft,  springy  stems,  just  dried,  pale-green 
still  with  their  sealed-up  juices,  so  clean  and  pliant,  took  any 
luxurious  form  we  tossed  them  into. 

"  It  is  just  perfect ! "  said  the  Secretary's  lady,  out  of  a 
deep  nest. 

"  There  is  nothing  like  haytirne  in  the  country,  —  if  you 
don't  have  rose-cold,"  said  Augusta. 

"  Can  you  ride  in  a  '  rigging '  ? "  I  asked  them.  "  Because 
that  is  the  way  I  mean  to  take  you  to  tea,  presently." 

"On  a  load  of  hay?  Lovely!  But  how  shall  we  get 
up?" 

"It  isn't  to  be  a  very  great  'up,'"  I  said.  "  Something 
constructed  especially  for  us.  And  I  believe  they  are  coming 
with  it  now." 

A  large,  gray-painted  hay-rigging,  filled,  but  not  heaped, 
drawn  by  Richard's  two  handsomest  oxen,  great  cream-coloi^d 
creatures  with  black  noses,  black  tips  to  their  long  horns,  and 
large,  beautiful  eyes,  came  slowly  up  over  the  swell  between 
the  haycocks.  Jabez,  swaying  his  long  whip,  walked 
proudly  enough,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  by  their  heads. 

"  Haw  !  Gee-haw  !  Haw,  Pres'dunt !  "  and  the  rigging 
creaked  and  wheeled  up  under  the  edge  of  the  oaks. 

Jabez  slid  a  board  from  behind  the  side  poles  over  the  end 
to  th'e  ground. 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  385 

I  saw  that  my  surprise  was  felicitous.  The  interest  and  the 
uncertainty  were  complete  and  delightful.  Nobody  knew 
just  what  next.  Even  Augusta,  who  had  been  in  the  middle 
as  usual,  rather  patronizing  and  showing  off  the  glory  of  field 
and  sky,  by  way  of  elaborately  justifying  herself  in  regard  to 
Hathaway  Farm,  looked  at  this  moment  as  simply  wondering 
and  expectant  as  a  child. 

We  put  them  in.,  Richard  and  I,  and  took  our  places  at  the 
end,  to  be  the  first  to  alight.  Then  the  mighty,  slow-stepping 
oxen  drew  us  on,  down  "  among  the  constellations,"  Hope 
said,  laughing ;  "  through  the  milky  wa}r,"  Richard  sug- 
gested. How  pleased  and  proud  I  was  of  his  little  joke  when 
he  made  one ! 

But  whither,  since  we  were  leaving  the  house  behind  us? 

That  they  were  not  to  know. 

Down  into  Pine  Lane,  through  the  bar-place,  crushing  along 
on  its  deep  carpet  of  leaf-needles.  On  and  on  ;  President 
and  Governor  treading  slow ;  drinking  in  the  summer  fra- 
grance of  the  resinous  air. 

I  suppose  they  had  never  done  anything  so  purely  pastoral 
as  that.  Augusta  Cope  looked  whole  thesauruses  of  admiring 
adjectives  at  me. 

But  it  was  no  studied  stroke  of  mine,  either.  It  was 
simply  the  prettiest  place,  and  the  nicest  way  of  getting 
there.  Yet  she  evidently  felt  that  I  was  covering  myself 
with  glory.  I  had  gone  even  beyond  her  guaranty.  She 
was  more  than  satisfied ;  she  was  ecstatically  triumphant 
with  me  and  the  Farm. 

"  You  are  giving  us  a  perfect  pleasure,"  said  Grandon  Cope 
to  me. 

I  knew  how  exactly  he  meant  each  measured  word.  I  was 
just  a  little  proud,  then,  as  well  as  glad.  I  tasted  the  high 
flavor  of  a  social  success. 

Richard  was  simply  pleased  that  I  should  have  all  the 
praise. 

Martha*  had  done  her  part  gloriously.     We  had  all  been 
busy  in  the   morning,  she  and  Hope  and  I,  of  course.     But 
the  final  rendering  of  all  things,  and  the  consummate  coffee, 
25 


386  HITHERTO  : 

and  the  delicately  brewed  tea,  —  these  were  her  responsibili- 
ties and  achievements.  The  spry-cotered  calico  fluttered  in 
an.tl  out  of  one  of  the  little  wood-nooks  below  the  Knoll,  like  a 
flock  of  strange  birds. 

It  was  to  be  a  ha3Ting-part}r,  all  through ;  we  were  not  to 
miss  our  luxm-ious  cushions,  even  down  here.  Richard  had 
had  a  load  sent  down  on  purpose,  and  it  lay  like  a  divan,  in 
a  ridge  running  around  the  whole  summit,  of  tne  Knoll,  in 
whose  centre  stood  the  table,  made  only  with  boards  and 
barrels,  but  covered  with  white  Hathaway  home  linen  that 
swept  the  grass. 

Did  they  ever  see  such  biscuits,  and  such  white  and  brown 
bread,  in  beautiful  contrasting  piles,  I  wonder?  Or  such 
cream  and  raspberries, —  the  red  fruit,  large  and  cool  and  fair, 
lying  in  great  baskets,  lined  and  twined  with  leaves?  Or 
such  cream-cakes,  and  such  sponge  loaA'es,  cut  in  long,  gener- 
ous slices  that  just  lay  apart,  showing  their  golden  pores? 
I  trow  not. 

Quails  whistled  out  in  the  fields.  A  single  whip-poor-will 
in  the  skirt  of  the  woods  began  its  early  evening  song.  The 
pines  we  had  come  through  rustled,  high  up, .as  the  light 
evening  wind  touched  their  tops.  A  tender-gleaming  }"oung 
moon  looked  in  tremulously  between  the  trees,  out  of  the 
upper  horizon  light. 

Not  a  woman  there  but  me  had  a  hall  like  this  to  gather 
guests  in.  It  was  a  lovely  thing  to  be  the  mistress  of  Hatha- 
way Farm. 

I  set  it  all  down  now,  and  look  at  it,  as  I  set  it  down  in  my 
mind  and  looked  at  it  then.  It  was  a  lovely  thing  —  a  dear 
and  lovely  thing  —  to  be  Richard's  wife ;  he  so  kind  and 
loving  and  giving  and  true  ;  and  to  be  Mrs.  Hathaway  of  the 
Farm.  And  yet — and  yet  —  oh,  how  I  hated  and  blamed 
myself,  and  pitied  myself,  that  somehow,  somewhere  in  nie, 
was  a  place  not  quite  fed,  not  quite  satisfied,  not  truly  giving 
itself  up  to  this  good  man  as  he  gave  himself  and  all  to  me  ! 

I  tell  the  truth  before  my  own  conscience  and  before  God, 
that  what  made  me  hiddenly  wretched  —  the  thing  that 
thrust  up  its  hateful  head  like  a  serpent  in  a  Paradise  —  was 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  387 

the  thought,  the  misgiving,  —  it  was  only  a  glimpse  and  a 
threatening,  for  I  would  not  face  it  long  and  deliberately  yet, 
—  not  that  I  was  not  happy  with  this  whole,  strange,  exact- 
ing" nature  of  mine,  but  that  I  cheated  him  ;  that  I  did  not 
give  as  he  gave.  Not  that  I  did  not  as  a  wife  receive  all  that 
could  possibly  be  in  a  wife's  cup  of  happiness,  but  that  as  a 
wife  I  failed  and  was  unworthy. 

It  was  <Slno  use  to  ask  it  now,  but  the  asking  would  haunt 
me  all  my  life.  Ought  I  to  have  married  Richard  ? 

If  my  life  had  not  begun  hungry ;  if  I  had  not  been  a 
child  without  a  mother ;  if  all  nature  had  fitted  rightly  and 
sweetly  to  me,  and  filled  me  from  the  first,  and  as  I  went 
along,  I  should  not  perhaps  have  been  this  restless,  groping, 
perplexed  soul  that  I  was.  If  I  had  been  like  those  EMgcll 
girls,  I  should  never  have  begun  to  ask  what  else  there  was 
in  the  world,  or  whether  I  should  ever  find  it.  I  should  have 
taken  things  for  granted,  and  as  they  came,  and  my  horizon 
would  at  once  have  bounded  and  satisfied  me.  But  I  was 
always  looking  over  into  neighbor-lives ;  always  seeing 
people  at  pleasant  windows  that  looked  out  as  mine  did  not 
look.  And  so  it  went  on  with  me.  It  was  the  disease  bred 
of  my  half-nurture. 

Augusta  Cope  bade  me  good-night  that  evening,  warmly, 
affectionately. 

"  There  was  never  anything  better  done,"  she  said.  "  I  am 
proud  of  you,  Nannie." 

"  We  thank  you  for  a  white  clay,  Mrs.  Hathaway,"  said 
Grandon  Cope. 

I  went  through  the  house  alone,  in  the  dark,  as  they  all 
drove  away.  I  heard  Martha  talking  to  a  friend  from  Broad- 
fields  Centre,  who  came  over  to  take  tea  with  her  and  help 
wash  dishes.  The  girl  looked  up  to  Martha,  so  old  and  ex 
perienced,  and  came  to  her  as  an  adviser.  She  had  something 
special,  evidently,  to  talk  about  to-night. 

"  I  can't  see  it  any  other  way,  Martha  Geddis,"  she  was 
saying.  "  I've  turned  it  over  and  over,  and  every  way  it 
looks  like  a  Providence.  I  expect  I  shall  go.  I  believe  in 
Providence." 


'388  HLTIIERTO : 

"  "Well,  I'd  hold  ou  to  that,"  said  Martha  Gedclis,"  anyhow. 
—  But  I'd  see  to  it  pretty  careful  that  I  didn't  hurry  Provi- 
dence." 

I  went  away  into  my  own  room,  —  our  room,  —  Richard's 
mother's.  I  sat  down  by  the  window  where  the  little  table 
stood  with  her  great  Bible  on  it,  as  it  always  had.  Upon  the 
Bible  was  my  little  work-basket.  I  pushed  it  aside,  and  laid 
my  head  down  upon  the  book.  I  was  as  one  whcroneels  out- 
side the  temple,  not  daring  to  go  in. 

Had  I  hurried  Providence  ? 


Richard  Hathaway  walked  up  and  down,  behind  the  house, 
in  the  path  that  led  to  the  Long  Orchard. 

"  jPve  only  half  done  it,  after  all,"  he  was  saying  to  him- 
self, dealing  with  a  new  though^  that  had  put  itself  before  him 
to-night.  "  I've  given  her  my  life,  with  the  rest  all  hanging 
upon  that.  Little  Richie's  gone,  and  it's  going  on  six  years.  If 
there  should  never  be  another  —  What  would  a  widow's  thirds 
be  to  Nansie  ?  What  she  wants  is  her  home,  —  this  home 
that's  everything  to  her.  John's  well  off,  and  Maiy.  I'll  put 
it  down  to-night,  and  I'll  see  John  Proctor  Monday." 

He  went  into  the  house,  and  sat  down  in  a  little  room 
where  he  kept  books  and  papers.  He  wrote  out  a  memoran- 
dum of  a  will. 

"  All  I  die  possessed  of  to  be  my  wife's,  Anstiss  Hathaway 's, 
for.  the  remainder  of  her  natural  life.  Her  widow's  thirds  to 
be  hers  absolutely.  Afterward,  the  rest  to  come  back  to  my 
brother  and  sister,  or  their  heirs-at-iaw.  The  homestead,  \villi 
the  land  originally  belonging  to  it,  —  the  garden,  the  Long 
Orchard  and  the  little  north  field,  —  to  go  to  the  oldest  living  of 
the  family  and  name." 

This  was  a  plain  man's  way  of  loving.  He  dealt  with  facts. 
Perhaps  it  was  easier.  He  knew  what  he  had  done,  when  he 
had  done  it. 

John  Proctor  stopped  him  on  Monday,  when  he  gave  him 
the  paper  and  was  going  away  to  leave  him  to  make  it  into  a 
will. 

"  One  thing,  Mr.  Hathaway.    1 1  doesn't  seem  to  have  occurred 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  3.89 

to  you.  You  wish  to  make  this  quite  unconditional?  Mrs. 
Hathaway  might  marry  again." 

Richard  Hathaway  stood  still  a  moment  at  the  office  door. 

"  Give  her  one-third  absolutely,  if  she  does  ;  and  one-third 
more  for  her  life.  Let  the  homestead  come  back  to  the  name, 
and  the  rest  be  divided." 

It  seemed  almost  as  if  he  had  given  her  up  to  another,  say- 
ing this.  He  had  a  strange  feeling  upon  him,  riding  home. 
When  he  saw  his  wife  in  the  hall  as  he  came  up,  it  was  as  if 
he  had  got  her  back  again.  He  gave  his  horse  to  a  farm-boy, 
and  carrie  straight  in  to  her. 

"  My  little  Nansie  ! "  he  said,  putting  his  arm  about  her. 
It  was  such  a  common  word  with  him  that  she  never  knew  all 
there  was  in  it.  Yet  every  time  he  said  it,  it  came  out  of 
some  new  thought  of  his  for  her,  as  if  he  had  never  said  it 
before. 

If  she  had  known  all  that  was  behind  it  now !  If  she  should 
come  to  know  it,  when  she  could  only  remember  that  it  had 
been ! 

"  My  little  Nansie  !     Has  all  gone  well  to-day?" 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  answered,  out  of  the  side  of  her  heart  that 
was  always  warm  to  him.  "Only  —  Richard!  You  are  a 
great  deal  too  good  to  me  !  " 

"  Only  as  good  as  I  know  how,"  he  said,  again.  This,  too, 
was  an  old  word. 

"Am  I  as  good  as  I  know  how,  —  as  I  ever  could  know 
how,  —  to  him?  Away  down,  deep? — Am  I  a  hypocrite 
under  the  condemnation?" 

In.  the  seventh  year  of  her  marriage  these  questions  had 
grown  up  into  words,  with  Anstiss  Hathaway. 


390  HITHERTO: 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

LIGHT. 

AFTER  that,  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  the  Copes,  all  summer ; 
and  I  thought  it  did  me  good. 

I  remembered  what  Mrs.  Cryke  had  said;  why  should  I 
expect  to  get  it  "  all  in  one  piece"?  Why  must  Richard  be 
able  to  do  everything  for  me  that  God  meant  in  all  this  world  ? 
Why  not  let  my  life  broaden,  if  it  would,  and  so  be  more  con- 
tent with  every  part?  Friends,  —  social  interchange,  —  were 
not  these  also  a  great  portion  of  what  is  given  ?  I  had  been 
too  much  shut  up  with  my  own  particular  living.  I  had  come 
to  demand  too  much  of  it,  —  of  ni3Tself. 

I  came  home  richer  from  South  Side,  always. 

I  met  men  of  science  there,  —  people  of  high  culture,  men 
and  women.  I  learned  about  books,  and  what  I  wanted  to 
read ;  and  Augusta  was  alwaj^s  generous  in  lending.  I 
learned  what  was  agitating  in  the  world  of  thought,  of  inquiry, 
of  research.  I  gathered  opinions  ;  I  compared  and  general- 
ized ;  and  I  thought  my  apprehensions  of  life  and  realities  and 
all  related  things  grew  thereby. 

Yet  at  home  the  smite  would  come  back  upon  my  heart 
sometimes  ;  for  I  was  afraid  I  grew  aivay.  Away  from  Rich- 
ard, who  had  no  time  —  no  turn,  he  said  —  for  speculations, 
or  analyses  ;  for  following  up  the  things  that  people  knew  and 
lived  in  out  in  that  other  world  ;  things  that  I  wished  I  could 
go  to  him  for.  For  I  did  wish  it ;  I  was  loyal  in  wishing  it, 
still. 

One  thing  I  learned,  —  I  could  not  help  learning,  —  seeing 
them  so  much.  Grandou  Cope  and  his  wife  were  not  one,  but 
two  persons. 

Augusta  was   the   same  Augusta  as  ever ;   no  deeper,  no 


A    STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  391 

larger  of  soul ;  and  I  think  that  Granclon  had  just  given  it 
up.  It  seemed  as  if  they  had  both  given  up.  She  was  grace- 
ful, courteous,  mindful  of  all  her  duties  of  position  ;  he  was  a 
noble  man  and  thorough  gentleman,  —  to  his  wife,  as  to  all. 
But  I  think  they  could  almost  say  all  that  they  had  to  say  to 
each  other,  in  the  presence  of  the  guests  they  continually  en- 
tertained. I  think  she  locked  away  nothing  from  him.  I  do 
not  think  she  had  anything  to  lock  away.  She  just  lived  in 
the  middle,  and  never  cared  to  withdraw. 

He,  great,  strong  of  thought,  —  not  able  to  give  himself  to 
her,  because  simply,  a  porcelain  cup  can  never  hold  an  ocean,  — 
gave  himself  out  upon  all  the  world,  upon  all  the  universe  of 
thought  and  things  ;  gave  himself  toward  truth  and  eternity. 

She  recognized  this  in  him,  just  as  the  wife  of  a  great  mer-» 
chant  or  financier  might  recognize  her  husband's  fiscal  talent 
and  his.  influence  and  weight  in  the  monetary  world,  never  ex- 
pecting to  understand  his  ledgers  or  his  banking  operations  ; 
only  proud,  that  belonging  to  her,  he  was  of  himself  also, 
something.  Granclon  Cope's  powers  and  achievements  were  to 
her  what  his  earldom  would  have  been  if  he  had  had  one,  and 
with  it  had  made  her  a  countess.  She  had  married  his  mental 
rank  ;  and  valued  herself  accordingly  upon  it. 

Yet  she  could  talk  sufficiently  and  graceful^,  too,  upon  the 
last  new  topics  ;  that  was  needful  in  her  world,  and  as  his 
wife.  She  wore  the  Cope  jewels  ;  that  was  Mrs.  Granclon 
Cope's  prerogative. 

Granclon  Cope  became  my  excellent  friend.  I  honored  him 
with  a  pure,  admiring  honor.  I  received  from  him  what  no- 
body else  in  the  world  could  give  me. 

I  was  more  nearly  and  more  uniformly  content,  this  year, 
than  I  had  ever  been  before.  There  were  two  sides  to  my 
life  again,  and  all  my.  life  was  larger. 

But  I  had  no  business  to  have  two  sides  to  my  life,  in  such- 
wise. 

The  time  came  when  I  found  that  out ;  found  out  that  I  was 
in  a  false  and  specious  content ;  that  I  was  patching  up  what 
should  have  been  perfect  and  entire  with  that  which  had  no 


392,  HITHERTO: 

relation  to  it.  This  was  good,  but  it  should  not, have  been 
needed  to  make  good  the  other.  There  was  evil  arid  fear  in 
it,  if  it  were.  Fear  that  it  should  replace  and  thrust  aside 
and  put  asunder. 

A  whole  year  went  by,  —  a  year  of  comings  and  goings 
and  living  on,  —  one  of  the  years  that  it  takes  to  make  a  page 
in  the  stories  that  we  tell  ourselves,  —  before  I  began  to  think 
of  this,  before  I  turned  round  and  looked  back  to  see  where 
the  time  had  brought  me.  Maujr  such  years  might  have  gone 
by,  writing  a  deep,  terrible  story  in  all  our  lives,  without 
much  sign  or  blot  upon  the  surface,  but  for  a  thing  which 
happened. 

In  the  end  of  that  next  summer,  Richard  went  away  into 
New  York  State,  to  see  his  brother  John  and  his  sister  Maiy. 
He  had  business  matters  with  them,  and  it  had  also  been  a 
long  time-  since  they  had  met. 

I  should  have  gone  with  him,i>ut  that  Uncle  Royle  was 
failing  very  much,  and  Aunt  Ildy  was  not  quite  well  herself. 
Hope  had  a  great  deal  on  her  hands.  So  I  went  to  my  old 
home  for  the  week  or  ten  days  that  Richard  would  be  gone. 
Martha  had  her  friend  Priscilla  from  the  Centre,  to  stay  with 
her  and  help  keep  house ;  Priscilla  having  as  yet  not  "  hur- 
ried Providence "  to  conclusions,  but  being  still  in  a  waiting 
and  counsel-beseeching  frame  of  mind. 

I  was  bus\7,  helping  Hope,  and  waiting  on  Uncle  Royle,  the 
first  few  days  ;  then  Aunt  IkVy's  indisposition  wore  off,  and 
Uncle  Ro3'le  was  more  comfortable.  Hope  and  I  had  time  for 
quiet  sittings  and  talks  in  our  own  room,  and  for  going  out  a 
little. 

One  morning,  Augusta  Cope  came  down.  She  had  just 
found  out  that  I  was  there. 

"  Why  did  }~ou  not  let  me  know? "  she  said. 

"I  only  came  to  be  of  use,"  I  told  her.  "I  could  not 
expect  to  have  leisure  to  go  about." 

But  in  1113-  heart  there  had  been  an  undefined  feeling  that  I 
would  not  immediately  begin  to  be  happy  with  that  other  half 
of  me  when  Richard  had  just  gone  a\va}*. 

"  Now,  however,"  she  said,  '•  you  are  more  at  liberty.     You 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  393 

must  come  and  dine  with  us  to-morrow.  "We  have  no  com- 
pany, except  one  or  two  sta}'ing  in  the  house.  It  is  not  often 
3'ou  can  come  so  easiby,  and  Grandon  has  been  showing  us 
soiiiC  pretty  experiments  lately,  which  you  would  like." 

"Well,  I  promised.- 

Why  not?  Only  for  this  half  consciousness  of  a  secret 
sense  of  freedom,  which  had  been  the  reason  of  my  self-disci- 
pline in  resolvjng  that  I  would  not  be  in  a  hurry  to  let  the 
Copes  find  me  out. 

It  was  strange  to  say  to  Aunt  Ildy,  the  next  day,  so  quietty 
and  without  contradiction,  that  I  was  "  engaged  to  dine  with 
Augusta."  It  was  strange  to  put  on  —  before  that  very  glass 
at  which  I  had  tied  the  blue  ribbon  in  my  hair,  and  hidden  it 
away  so  carefully,  like  my  pleasure,  on  my  first  going  to 
South  Side,  — 1113'  rich,  sunny-brown  silk  and  my  delicate 
laces,  —  of  my  best  few,  to  be  sure,  but  fine  and  beautiful  as 
Augusta's  own,  —  and  to  fasten  the  little  three-cornered,  ma- 
tronly bit  that  la}'  upon  my  hair  with  golden  pins,  and  to  take 
my  soft  white  shawl  over  my  arm,  and  go  down  to  Mrs. 
Grandon  Cope's  carriage  which  waited  for"  me  at  the  door. 

For  my  life  I  could  not  help  a  rkliculous  feeling  that  Aunt 
Ilcly  would  interfere  ;  at  least  take  off  something  that  she 
thought  unsuitable  or  unnecessary  in  my  apparel,  before  I 
went. 

It  was  a  pretty  coupe,  with  gray  horses,  —  Augusta's  own 
especial  equipage.  The  carriage  and  the  horses  were  new  ;  a 
birthday  present  from  her  husband. 

I  did  not  compare  that  with  what  Richard  could  give  to  me  ; 
there  was  no  mean  covetousness  like  that  in  me  ;  I  desired 
most  earnestly  only  the  best  gifts,  — the  gifts  that  Augusta 
Cope  took  only  at  their  outside,  as  she  took  these  things.  All, 
to  her,  was  but  surrounding.  I  could  not  help  thinking  of 
that. 

Neither  were  the  quiet  elegance  and  luxury  of  South  Side 
any  more  a  desire  or  a  contrast  to  me.  I  loved  my  beautiful 
life  at  the  Farm.  That  was  as  true  and  as  delicate,  in  its 
own  fresh,  simple  way,  as  this.  I  was  quite  content,  as  I  had 
been  years  ago,  to  think  of  the  two,  and  to  find  a  kind  of  uni- 


394  HITHERTO: 

son  between  them.  I  was  as  willing  to  be  Mrs.  Hathaway  by 
the  side  of  Mrs.  Cope,  as  I  had  been  to  see  my  old  friend, 
Richard's  mother,  alongside  Allard's  mother  in  the  old  days. 

The  elder  Mrs.  Cope  was  almost  lovelier  than  ever,  now. 

Her  hair,  turned  softly  silver,  gleamed  under  the  same  deli- 
cate coverings  ;  her  gray  and  white  narrow-striped  silk,  with 
its  one  little  flounce,  her  lace  sleeves,  her  close  collar  of  Val- 
enciennes fastened  with  a  single  diamond ;  .her  face,  and 
smile,  and  mien,  —  in  all  she  was  as  queenly  fair  and  gentle  to 
the  eye  of  the  woman  as  she  had  been  to  that  of  the  child. 

The  word  "  mother  "  still  came  up  in  my  heart  as  I  looked 
at  her. 

After  dinner,  in  the  library,  Grandon  Cope  came  and  sat  by 
me. 

"I  have  something  to  show  you  presently,  Mrs.  Hatha- 
way," he  said.  "I  remember  you  love  color,  and  the  color- 
types.  Do  you  recollect  the  '  wall  of  the  New  Jerusalem  '  ?  " 

"  It  was  one  of  the  steps  up  for  me,"  I  answered.  "  It  was 
a  point  in  my  life." 

"  This  has  to  do  with  it.  How,  perhaps  you  will  tell  me. 
You  know  the  idea  of  the  waves  of  light?  " 

"  The  undulatory  theory  ;  yes.  We  used  to  laugh  at  it  at 
school,  saying  it  was  the  great  quaking  bog  into  which  the 
philosophers  flung  all  their  confusions.  Everything  inexpli- 
cable was  dismissed  with  that  phrase." 

"  But  if  3rou  think  of  it  as  a  pulse  of  God's  life?" 

He  asked  it  low  and  reverently. 

"  I  did,"  I  said  to  him,  low  also,  in  return.     "  I  wondered 
they  did  not  go  further,  and   say   that.     I   knew   they  just  • 
stopped  at  the  shore  line  between  matter  and  spirit." 

"  Do  you  know  what  makes  the  colors  in-  the  soap- 
bubble?" 

"  Refraction,  of  course  ;  like  any  prism." 

"But  their  coming  and  going,  —  the  order  of  their  change. 
Do  you  know  they  come  and  fade  in  the  everlasting  order,  — 
the  octave  of  the  rainbow, — the  highest,  last?  As  the 
amethyst  is  the  top  stone  of  the  City  Wall?" 

I  said  nothing.     I  on\y  listened. 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  395 

"Shall  you  and  I  make  a  soap-bubble?  A  sublime  soap- 
bubble,  with  the  truth  in  it?  The  others  have  seen  it.  I  wish 
that  3rou  should,  too." 

He  got  up  and  took  me  in,  through  a  little  arched  and  cur- 
tained portiere,  to  an  inner  room,  a  mere  recess  within  the 
library,  where  was  a  table,  with  many  little  delicate  experi- 
mental appliances  upon  it ;  a  cupboard,  opening  above  in  the 
wall,  containing  jars  and  vials;  a  globe  standing  in  one. cor- 
ner upon  a  pedestal,  and  upon  a  bracket,  in  another,  a  model 
of  some  elegant  machinery  in  a  glass  case. 

"  I  will  not  take  it  out  there  to-night.  We  will  have  it 
quite  to  ourselves." 

He  drew  forward  upon  the  table  a  little  silver  circular 
frame,  —  a  mere  rim,  —  lightly  supported,  and  quite  empty. 

"  1  shall  set  a  bubble  in  that,  and  make  it  stay ;  that  is,  if 
T  have  good  luck,"  he  said. 

And  he  went  to  the  wall-cupboarcj  and  took  down  a  low, 
open,  wide-mouthed  jar,  and  a  little  silver-mounted  pipe. 
The  jar  had  soap-suds  in  it. 

"  Not  common  soap-suds  exactly,"  said  he.  "  A  little 
bewitched.  Will  you  blow  the  bubble,  or  shall  I?" 

"  I'm  afraid  I  should  break  the  charm,"  I  answered. 

He  dipped  the  oowl  of  the  pipe,  and  blew  a  clear,  round 
globe,  carefully,  to  a  size  correspondent  to  the  little  silver 
frame  ;  and  then  gently  and  nicety  lodged  it  in  the  rim,  and 
detached  the  pipe. 

"  I  think  you  have  somehow  strengthened  the  charm,"  he 
said,  smiling,  "  I  hardly  ever  succeed  with  the  very  first ; 
and  I  wanted  especially  to  have  it  perfect  to-night." 

Then  he  moved  it  cautiously,  placing  it  under  a  porcelain- 
ehaded  reading-lamp,  which  threw  a  concentrated  force  of 
brilliant  light  upon  it. 

"  Now  you  will  see  the  colors  come,"  said  he,  "  as  the 
bubble  thins.  Just  as  they  would  have  clone  if  I  had  blown  it 
bigger.  It  is  a  little  rainbow  in  harness.  —  Do  you  know 
how  it  will  begin  ?  "What  you  will  see  first  ?  " 

"  It  ought  to  be  the  red." 

"  It  will  be." 


396  HITHERTO: 

As  he  spoke,  I  saw  it  coming ;  the  fine,  vivid  crimson, 
flushing  up  under  the  rays  of  the  lamp  ;  spreading  down, 
down,  like  a  sunrise  over  a  little  world. 

"  But  I  never  saw  a  bubble  like  that ! "  I  cried.  "  They 
always  come  in  two  or  three  colors,  on  different  sides  ;  running 
round  and  round,  and  showing  through  and  through." 

"  I  told  you  this  was  subordinated.  But  that  is  just  be- 
cause of  the  thing  I  am  going  to  tell  you. 

"  The  waves  of  light,  —  the  pulses,  —  the  same  from  every 
little  centre  like  this,  that  they  are  from  the  heart  of  the  Sun, 
—  come  in  measured  lengths ;  the  red  longest,  because  the 
pulse  is  slowest ;  the  violet  shortest,  with  its  inconceivably 
fine  and  quick  vibration  ;  and  every  little  film  on  earth  that 
catches  them,  receives  just  its  own  color,  as  its  thickness  or 
thinness  corresponds  —  responds,  perhaps  I  should  say  —  to 
the  stroke,  and  takes  up  the  beat.  —  Do  you  see  the  gold  corn- 
ing?" 

A  clear  and  perfect  joy  above  the  softening  flush ;  a  mel- 
low beauty  lightening  more  and  more,  holding  the  pure  sphere 
in  a  loving  gloiy  ;  the  crimson  fallen  down,  till  it  lay,  still 
receding,  diminishing,  around  the  under  hemisphere,  and  just 
above  the  horizon  rim  ;  the  gold  pouring,  pouring  in  its  turn, 
like  an  intense,  enfolding  rapture.  ( 

"  But  why  do  they  not  flush  here  and  there,  as  they  do 
when  children  blow  them?" 

"Because  this  was  blown  with  as  regular  a  force  as  possi- 
ble, to  make  it  even  ;  and  because  it  was  not  distended .  too 
far.  Now  the  varying  thickness  depends  upon  the  settling 
down  of  the  liquid  toward  the  base  ;  so  the  red  drops,  and  the 
gold  comes  over  ;  see,  there  is  the  green  !  " 

Still  the  crimson  lay  beneath,  like  a  memory  of  fire  ;  above, 
the  purged  and  molten  gold ;  and  now,  creeping  from  the  top- 
most, the  fulness,  the  rest,  the  Uvingness,  of  the  deep,  bright, 
satisfying  green. 

Like  an  emerald  sea ;  stealing  down  gently ;  all  the  little 
globe  Hooded  with  it  graciously  ;  changing,  changing  ;  purify- 
ing into  blue  ;  the  gold  let  fall,  and  resting  on  the  vanishing 


A    STORY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  397 

» 

line  of  crimson ;  the  green  sleeping  upon  these ;  the   tender 
azure  calm  coming  down,  like  a  heaven  of  peace. 

Clearer  and  clearer  grew  the  thinning  sphere ;  it  was  like 
fine  blue  air ;  like  a  sky  fragment ;  it  trembled,  as  a  visible 
breath. 

"We  held  our  own.     Will  it  go,  before  it  has  done  ? 

Thinner,  thinner  yet ;  only  the  faintest,  purest,  gold-light 
and  soft  blue-green,  and  quivering  blue  ;  the  gold  gives  way  ;  it 
,s  not  wanted  any  more ;  the  mingling  of  the  green  is  gone. 
[t  is  pure,  holy,  distant  sapphire. 

Grandon  Cope  just  lifted  a  finger,  as  if  he  would  say,  Look  ! 
W~e  would  not  stir  the  air  with  a  word,  leaning  toward  the 
spirit-wonder. 

It  was  violet,  now.  We  could  not  tell  how  the  blue  went  by. 
Now  it  was  neither  water  nor  air ;  but  an  ethereal  flame,  — 
delicate,  intense  ;  something  we  seemed  to  see,  as  it  were,  in- 
wardly ;  it  was  such  a  far,  impalpable  beauty.  Deepening,  — 
rarefying,  —  receding.  There  was  an  impression  of  a  marvel- 
Ions  instant ;  we  felt  what  amethystine  meant ;  and  it  was 
gone. 

The  silver  rim  stood  empty. 

*     I  let  my  head  fall  down.     I  felt  as  if  somebody  had  died, 
and  I  had  caught  a  gleam  of  heaven  as  the  spirit  went  in. 

"  It  has  been  more  than  a  bubble-play  to  you"  said  Gran- 
don Cope. 

Was  it  a  bubble-play  to  them  ? 

"  Mr.  Cope  !     It  was  a  human  soul ! " 

He  said  nothing  ;  only  looked  into  my  face,  that  I  had  lifted, 
with  deep,  fervent  eyes. 

"  It  was  fire  and  passion  ;  it  was  human  joy ;  it  was  life  and 
fulness  ;  it  was  purifying,  and  peace  ;  it  was  the  inmost  heaven, 
—  at  last !  " 

"  You  have  seen ! " 

Then  he  stood  up. 

Was  it  my  own  self  that  whispered  to  me,  or  a  tempting 
spirit,  in  that  instant  of  seeing,  of  uplifting  ? 

Why,  across  the  beauty  of  what  he  had  given  ufe,  came  the 


398  HITHERTO  : 

flashing  consciousness  of  the  recognition  those  deep  eyes  had 
for  me,  in  the  utterance  of  our  common  thought  ? 

Why  did  I  think  of  Augusta,  laughing  with  low,  pleasant 
grace,' in  that  next  room,  among  her  guests? 

Did  I  say  it  to  myself?  "  He  never  could  have  looked  upon 
her  so !  " 

I  do  not  know  whether  I  thanked  him  or  not. 

I  got  up  to  go  away  into  the  other  room. 

Grandon  Cope's  voice  made  me  pause  again.  He  was 
gathering  up  the  things  that  he  had  used.  , 

"It  will  all  come,"  he  said ;  I  could  hardly  tell  whether  to 
me  or  to  himself.  "  But  we  must  rest  in  the  rims  God  puts 
us  in." 

It  flashed  out  of  me,  —  the  question  born  of  the  keen  'truth. 
The  truth  I  saw  in  life ;  his  life,  and  mine. 

"  But  what  of  the  rims  we  put  ourselves  in?" 

His  strong,  just,  obedient  spirit  looked  forth  at  me  from 
pure,  swerveless  eyes. 

"  That  He  lets  us  put  ourselves  in?  We  must  be  patient  in 
the  rims  He  finds  us  in." 

I  had  asked  to  go  home  early,  for  I  could  not  keep  Aunt 
Ildy  up  and  I  knew  she  would  not  go  to  bed  till  all  was  locked, 
and  the  house  settled. 

The  coupe  came  round  at  half-past  nine.  Augusta  slipped 
out  into  the  hall  to  say  good-by,  and  Mr.  Grandon  Cope  went 
with  me  to  the  carriage. 

He  put  me  in,  and  stood  upon  the  step,  handing  me  my 
shawl  and  some  books  that  they  had  lent  me. 

Neither  of  us  noticed  that  the  coachman  left  his  horses  for 
a  moment. 

He  was  a  new  servant ;  if  he  had  been  with  the  Copes  longer, 
he  would  not  have  done  this.  I  do  not  know  what  it  was  for  ; 
I  believe  he  said  afterward  it  was  onljr  to  throw  some  blanket 
into  a  doorway.  The  horses  started.  Mr.  Cope  glanced  to 
the  front,  and  called  out  a  stern  "  Whoa !  "  For  the  space  of 
a  thought  he  stood  upon  the  step ;  it  was  an  instantaneous 


A    STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  399 

calculation.  It  was  too  late  to  reach  their  heads,  and  the 
door  was  swinging  open. 

He  sprang  inside  and  shut  it. 

We  heard  the  servant  rush  forward  ;  we  knew  he  grasped  at 
the  reins  ;  we  caught  a  cry,  half  imprecation,  half  dismay ;  we 
knew  he  had  lost  them ;  that  we  were  alone,  and  the  horses 
guideless. 

Grandon  Cope  let  down  the  wide  front  glass. 

He  reached  himself  half  through,  across  the  driver's  seat, 
as  if  he  would  get  out  that  way,  and  obtain  the  reins.  He 
saw  them  dragging,  I  suppose,  far  out  of  grasp. 

The  horses,  frightened  now,  were  galloping.  We  were  out 
of  the  avenue,  upon  the  hill. 

Then  he  drew  back,  and  looked -at  me. 

"  Keep  quiet  and  strong,"  he  said.  "  Something  will  stop 
us  before  long.  The  carriage  is  new,  and  thickly  cushioned. 
We  shall  come  out  of  this." 

Then  he  turned,  bracing  a  knee  against  the  low,  front  half- 
seat  of  the  coupe,  —  for  he  could  not,  of  course,  stand  up- 
right, —  and  looked  forward  again,  watching. 

I  do  not  know  whether  we  ai-e  conscious  of  fear  in  the  very 
midst  of  danger,  as  we  are  when  it  is  only  threatening.  I  do 
not  think  that  in  the  actual  crash  of  that  electric  bolt  which 
came  down  above  our  heads  in  the  old  Polisher  house,  I  felt 
so  much  as  afterward,  when  I  dreaded  that  it  might  come 
again.  There  is  a  strange  sensation,  —  "This  is  it!  It  is 
here  !  "  which  snatches  us  into  a  terrible  intimacy  and  relation 
with  the  peril,  that  will  not  let  us  look  at  it  from  far  enough 
to  know  its  terror,  as  we  do  before  and  after  that  embrace. 

I  do  not  know  what  it  was  I  felt,  as  I  sat  there  by  Grandon 
Cope's  side,  with  the  horses  running  away,  -down  the  hill,  to- 
ward the  bridge. 

I  made  no  sound.  He  kept  his  face  forward,  looking  in- 
tently through  the  open  front  at  the  bounding  horses,  and  the 
waymarks  of  th^road. 

We  thundered  over  the  bridge,  into  New  Oxford  Street. 

I  heard  the  shouts  of  men.     I  knew  a  crowd  was  gathering, 


400  HITHERTO: 

and  running  by  our  side ;  a  changing  crowd,  distanced,  and 
still  renewed. 

I  wondered,  passively,  what  the  end  must  be. 

I,  too,  could  see,  and  watch  ;  with  all  the  intensity  of  strained 
nerve,  and  keenly  quickened  apprehension.  The  night  was 
bright.  I  knew  well  every  bit  and  pass  of  the  way. 

We  were  in  the  broad  River  Street. 

There  was  an  old  house  being  taken  down,  that  made  a  pro- 
jecting corner,'  at  a  crossing.  A  rough  fence,  enclosing  it, 
took  in  a  third  part  of  the  highway. 

The  turning  here,  a  short  one,  led  right  down  upon  the  open 
wharf. 

He  knew  we  must  bring  up  there.  There,  or  —  the  carriage 
was  so  fatally  new  and  strong  ! 

Clear  as  light  was  the  thought  that  thrust  itself  upon  me 
then.  Sharpened,  distinct.  I  could  neither  resist  nor  deny 
it.  I  can  never  deny  it,  to  myself  or  in  the  sight  of  Heaven. 

"  I  shall  go  out  of  the  world  —  God  knows  where  —  with 
this  soul  that  is  beside  me  !  "  I  can  never  deny  the  thrill  that 
was  not  all  awfulness. 

I  remembered  Hope's  saying  :  "  I  wonder  what  He  will  do 
with  me  next !  " 

It  was  God's  doing.. 

I  looked  at  it  in  a  strange,  intense  expectancy. 

• 
God  sent  me  back  into  my  life  again  ;  after  he  had  showed 

me  myself. 

There  was  a  whirl  —  a  shock  —  a  sound  of  crashing,  as  if 
many  little  helpless  sticks  were  broken,  —  it  seemed  like  that. 
It  was  the  strong  axle  of  the  carriage. 

We  were  thrown  headlong ;  the  coupe^went  down  a  slight 
embankment,  and  turned  directly  on  its  top.  I  was  wedged 
in,  weighed  upon ;  my  neck  bent  painfully,  my  head  buried 
and  pressed  down  with  I  knew  not  what.  Tfee  blood  rushed 
behind  my  eyes.  I  thought,  "  Now  it  has  come.  Now,  my 
neck  will  break." 

Then   something   loosened  by   me ;   I   could  move ;   could 


'  A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  401 

struggle.  I  was  being  helped,  lifted.  I  was  out  in  the  air, 
in  Grandon  Cope's  arms. 

I  was  dizzy,  faint ;  I  tried  to  stand  ;  then  Mr.  Cope  put  his 
arm  about  me  again  ;  then  I  heard  somebody  say,  "  I  do  not 
think  she  is  hurt."  It  was  Mr.  Cope  ;  but  his  voice  sounded 
far  off. 

I  suppose  I  fainted  away.  I  had  never  done  it  before,  and 
I  thought  I  died. 


402  HITHERTO  : 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THORNS. 

HE  carried  her  in  his  strong  arms  down  the  whole  long 
street.  He  took  his  wife  from  Grandon  Cope,  and  walked 
awa}T  with  her  as  if  she  had  been  a  little  child. 

He  had  stood  at  the  doorway  of  Royle  Chism's  house, 
watching.  He  had  got  home  that  afternoon. 

He  had  seen  the  horses  come  tearing  down  the  hill. 

He  knew  that  it  was  the  Cope  carriage,  and  that  Anstiss 
was  in  it.  It  went  by,  sweeping,  swaying  round  the  curve, 
and  dashed  up  the  street ;  driverless,  the  reins  dragging  and 
tangling. 

He  rushed  after  it,  his  arms  flung  out,  as  if  he  would  reach 
from  behind  and  seize  it  back  with  his  two  hands. 

The  two  men  stood,  bareheaded  both,  beside  the  shattered 
carriage.  The  crowd  came  up. 

Mr.  Cope  gave  Anstiss  Hathaway  into  her  husband's  hands. 
Richard  went  away  with,  her  from  among  them  all,  whispering 
over  her,  breathlessly,  as  he  strode  along  :  — 

"  My  poor  little  wifie  !     Poor  little  frightened  Nansie  !  " 

She  came  to  herself,  with  the  motion  and  the  air,  just  before 
the}'  reached  the  door.  She  felt  herself  borne  along  ;  her  eyes 
opened  toward  the  blue  night  heaven,  upon  the  distant,  burn- 
ing stars. 

"Why!  why!"  she  gasped,  tremulously.  "What  is  it? 
Which  world  am  I  in  ?  —  O  Richard  !  " 

For  his  face  bent  down  above  her  instantly. 

"  Don't  kiss  me  !     I  was  tempted  of  the  devil !  " 

"What  did  she  mean?  Was  her  mind  touched?  Will  she 
beill?" 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  403 

9 

Anstiss  lay  still  upon  the  bed,  and  Richard  watched  her. 
Aunt  Ildy  had  given  her  wine,  and  bathed  her  head,  and 
rubbed  her  limbs,  and  felt  of  every  bone,  and  then  had  made 
her  take  the  unfailing  six  drops  of  camphor,  and  left  her  quiet 
with  her  husband,  and  gone,  herself,  to  bed. 

Hope  was  in  the  next  room,  and  would  be  called  if  anj-thing 
were  wanted.  Stillness  was  the  best  thing. 

Grandon  Cope  had  come  to  the  house,  to  ask  about  her. 
He  had  told  Richard  how  it  was,  and  the^i  with  a  friendly 
grasp  of  the  hand,  and  a  thankful  congratulation  that  it  was 
no  worse,  had  said  he  must  hasten  homeward,  to  relieve 
anxiety  there.  • 

Men  were  coming  with  the  horses.  He  borrowed  a  hat  of 
Richard,  and  walked  on. 

If  Richard  had  even  been  a  man  of  evil  mind,  or  had  lived 
more  among  the  evil  of  the  world,  he  could  not  have  thought 
ill  of  this  frank,  high,1"  simple  gentleman.  Anstiss'  words 
could  have  no  touch  of  relation  to  him.  Richard  Hathaway 
truly  never  thought  of  it.  He  was  too  high  himself. 

They  were  mere  wildness,  or  they  were  out  of  some  fresh 
phase  of  the  old,  rr^sterious  discontent. 

"  I  almost  wish  she  would  do  something  wrong ;  something 
she  could  look  at  outside  of  herself,  and  I  could  forgive  her 
for,"  the  poor,  patient,  loving  fellow  thought. 

"  She  is  wearing,  wearing,  all  the  time  ;  eating  herself  up. 
Everything  takes  hold  away  down,  where  I  can't  reach  or  help. 
She  is  always  holding  up  her  soul  to  me  with  a  thorn  in  it." 

He  did  not  know  that  it  was  poetry  and  pathos  ;  it  was  a 
natural  illustration  out  of  his  homely,  gentle,  compassionate  life. 

He  knew  how  to  help  dumb  things  in  their  hurts  ;  his  wife 
he  could  not  help. 

But  he  could  sit  there,  all  those  midnight  hours,  watching 
her  sleep  ;  hoping,  fearing,  how  she  might  awake  ;  not  know- 
ing what  the  shock  had  done.  She  was  so  tiniorsouie,  so  sen- 
sitive. 

By  and  by  she  moved  ;  awoke. 

She  said  she  should  like  a  glass  of  water.  Richard  brought 
it  instantly,  gladly. 


404  HITHERTO  : 

"  "Why,  it  is  you  !  "  she  said,  recollecting.  "  "When  did  you 
come  back?" 

"Just  in  time,  Nansie,  to  take  care  of  you.  Just  in  time 
for  you  to  frighten  me  thoroughly.  —  "What  were  you  and  Mr. 
Cope  running  away  for  ?  " 

He  had  to  make  some  simple  little  joke,  —  the  first  he  could 
think  of.  He  was  so  glad. 

"  O  Richard  !  I  didn't  mean  to !  I  don't  want  to  run  away 
from  you,  in  anything.  I  want  you  to  come  too,  always.  I 
do  want  to  be  a  better  wife,  Richard !  " 

There  it  was  again.     The  string  that  was  always  quivering. 

"  Be  a  good* girl,  now,  then,  and  go  to  sleep." 

She  raised  herself  upon  her  arm,  and  looked  around. 

"  Why,  Richard,  it  is  the-  middle  of  the  night !  You 
mustn't  sit  up  there.  I  can't  go  to  sleep  unless  you  do." 

"  Then  I  will.     I  will  come  to  bed  dh'ectly." 

He  moved  away,  took  out  his  watcn  and  wound  it,  laid  off 
his  coat  upon  a  chair,  and  then  went  and  stood  a  moment  by 
the  window. 

The  soothing  of  the  camphor  had  had  its  way.  She  had  not 
shaken  sleep  quite  from  her.  Her  eyes  were  closed  again,  and 
she  was  still. 

Richard  delayed  and  waited.  She  thought  he  was  coming, 
and  she  fell  asleep. 

Then  he  put  the  candle  out,  and  drew  his  feet  out  of  his 
slippers,  and  lay  down  beside  her,  quietly,  in  his  clothes. 

He  was  not  easy  about  her,  yet. 


I  tried  to  tell  Richard  about  it,  when  we  got  home  again, 
out  at  the  Farm. 

But  what  could  I  tell  him,? 

Just  that  flash  of  thought  ?  Or  all  that  that  flash  showed 
me  ?  How  could  I  make  him  see  ? 

It  was  what  might  have  been  ;  nothing  that  was  ;  it  was  a 
glimpse  of  good  and  evil ;  good  missed  and  forbidden,  and  so 
evil ;  evil  that  should  never  be. 

I  could  make  no  words  of  it  that  should  be  true  ;  it  was  only 
a  word  between  God  and  me.  A  word  that  I  must  bear  to 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  405 

bear  in  the  stillness.  A  thing  that  I  must  bear  to  know  possi- 
ble of  myself, — myself,  Richard  Hathaway's  wife. 

And  then,  what? 

To  go  on,  taking  all  his  love  ;  giving  him  what  I  could. 

The  pain  was,  that  this  seemed  all  he  wanted. 

"  It  won't  do  to  keep  raking  things  up  to  see  what  they  are. 
That's  your  mistake,  Anstiss  ;  I  don't  understand  it.  It's 
only  misery  and  excitement.  I  never  believed  in  dragging  out 
evidences  and  experiences  in  religion.  I  don't  believe  in  it  any 
more  between  man  and  wife.  The  more  you  look  after  things 
and  get  anxious  about  them,  the  irTore  it  seems  as  if  they 
weren't  there.  Take  it  for  granted.  You  believe  in  the  Lord  ; 
believe  in  yourself,  and  in  me." 

Did  he  know  —  did  he  remember  —  he  said  the  Lord's  own 
words  ? 

"  We  are  married,  and  we  must  just  go  on." 

That  was  what  he  answered  when  I  said  to  him  brokenly,  — 
half  questioning,  half  confessing  :  — 

"  What  if  I  knew  better  than  ever,  Richard,  that  I  don't 
give  you  half  enough?  That  there  is  something  in  me  I 
might  give?" 

We  were  married,  and  we  must  just  go  on. 

That  was  the  way  he  said  it.  It  seemed  to  shut  me  in,  and 
nail  me  down. 

And  3ret  Richard  was  so  good,  and  I  meant  to  love  him  so ! 
Anybody  would  be  tired  of  me,  to  hear  me  tell  all  this.  No- 
body would  have  patience. 

I  was  tired  of  myself.  Tired,  and  ashamed.  But  I  wanted 
to  be  true.  I  wanted  Richard,  at  least,  to  know  just  what  I 
was. 


He  meant  to  do  her  good.  He  thought  most  of  her,  as  he 
always  did.  He  set  before  her  the  plain  fact  of  her  life.  He 
would  allow  no  weight  to  her  fancies,  her  self-accusations. 
But  he  kept  back  the  sting  they  gave  him. 

"  I  suppose  I  know  what  she  means;  what  she  thinks  she 
means,  just  for  the  minute.  But  she  doesn't,  and  she  never 
shall.  I'll  never  understand  it ;  and  she  shall  never  have  it  to 


406  .  HITHERTO: 

think  of  that  I  have  understood  it  of  her.  It  will  all  pass  by, 
so. 

"  A  man  might  be  a  little  crazy,  even,  and  get  over  it,  if  he 
never  had  it  to  think  of  that  other  people  knew,  or  mistrusted. 
That's  where  they  give  up. 

"  It  shall  be  all  right  between  Nansie  and  me. 

"  God  help  me  if  I've  brought  her  here  and  should  ever  let 
it  go  all  wrong ! " 

He  sat  on  a  stone  in  the  shady  Low  Pasture  ;  he  was  on  his 
way  down  through  his  fields.  He  held  his  straw  hat  crushed 
between  his  hands.  There  were  knotted  veins  in  his  temples, 
and  there  was  a  flush  about  his  eyes. 

Richard  Hathaway's  bright,  kind  face  had  hardly  ever 
looked  like  that. 

Did  shelinow  what  it  had  been  to  him  to  say  those  common- 
place words  that  "  shut  her  in  and  nailed  her  down"? 

"  We  are  married  ;  and  we  must  just  go  on." 

It  needed  little  between  these  two.  If  he  had  said  the 
same  thing  in  other  fashion,  —  the  thing  that  was  truly  in  his 
faithful,  enduring  soul ! 

How  did  it  differ,  after  all,  from  what  Grandon  Cope  had 
said :  — 

"  We  must  be  patient  in  the  rims  he  finds  us  in  "  ? 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  407 


CHAPTER  XXXVI, 

HOPE'S  WITNESS. 

UNCLE  ROYLE  died  that  autumn. 

After  that,  Aunt  Ildy's  life  seemed  to  fc&^er  in  her,  queiu- 
lously,  like  a  candle-flame  whose  wick  has  bumt  through  the 
remnant  of  its  nourishment,  and  dropped  loose  in  its  socket. 

There  was  a  ring  of  living  left ;  but  the  spirit  flashed  hither 
and  %thither  within  it,  painfully,  restlessly  ;  not  knowing  how 
to  join  itself  to  or  feed  upon  it  again. 

It  never  would  feed  upon  it  any  more,  strongly  and  steadily  ; 
it  would  only  float  and  glimmer ;  as  that  which  remained 
should  melt  and,  crumble  slowly  around  it ;  and  suddenly  it 
would  go  awa}r,  into  the  dark. 

We  all  saw  how  this  would  be.  She  saw  it  herself.  She 
waited  for  it,  counting,  secretly,  her  own  pulses  of  pain,  and 
the  weary  time ;  wondering  when  the  flickering  would  be  over. 
Strong  people  break  down  so,  when  the  break  comes. 

"  She'll  go  soon,"  Lucretia  said.  "  She's  begun  to  look  in 
the  glass.  Figgeratively,  I  mean.  She  sees  her  own  pudgicki- 
ness  ;  and  it  aint  so  much  to  be  seen,*neither,  as  it  was  ;  but 
folks  sees  over  their  shoulders,  when  they  come  to  look.  '  I 
believe  it's  my  crossness  that  keeps  me,'  she  says  to  Hope  one 
day,  when  she  couldn't  stretch  the  sheet  as  tight  and  smooth 
as  a  fire-board,  to  suit  her.  '  Just  as  vinegar  does  pickles.' 
And  I  douno  but  it  does.  It's  the  vim,  what  there  is  of  it." 

The  hardest  thing  in  my  life,  that  winter,  was  that  Richard 
would  not  intrude  upon  it. 

I  had  my  books  and  my  thoughts ;  my  household  cares 
and  interests  ;  he  left  me  very  much  with  these,  going  his  own 
quiet  way,  except  as  he  could  give  me  any  practical  help,  or 
as  things  of  necessity  concerned  us  mutually. 


408  HITHERTO  : 

He  was  as  kind  as  ever ;  it  was  not  avoidance  ;  it  was 
rather  a  great  reserve,  like  a  dammed-up  stream.  I  myself 
had  thrown  the  bar  across.  I  had  told  him  I  could  not  give  ; 
he  would  not  demand. 

We  should  "just  go  on." 

Not  that  he  was  not  tender  either ;  but  he  was  not  gladl}r, 
freely  so. 

He  seemed  to  think  he  troubled  me. 

He  made  me  feel  as  if  I  had  crushed  him  down.  He  could 
have  taken  no  more  exquisite  way  of  punishing  me. 

I  had  complained  that  life  was  not  enough.  It  was  being 
taken  from  me,  even  that  which  I  had. 

Even  that  ?     I  began  to  know,  dimly,  what  I  was  losing. 

I  was  all  adrift.  I  had  forfeited  earthly  love,  and  I  had  not 
found  God's. 

I  knew  this,  now.  That  I  had  only  thought  about  it,  seen 
it  beautiful  from  afar ;  stood  without,  counting  the  stones  of 
the  wall ;  not  looking  for  the  door,  that  I  might  enter  in. 

What  was  I  to  do?  Give  up  my  life?  Consider  it  failed, 
lost,  wasted;  thrown  away,  utterly  and  forever?  Give  it  up 
here,  at  eight  and  twenty  years?  Call  it  judgment,  —  the 
rest  of  it,  —  and  conviction  of  sin  ? 

Give  up  his,  also,  and  ruin  it? 

That  way  lay  madness,  —  hell. 

The  life  beyond?  The  life  that  for  one  wild,  wicked  mo- 
ment, I  had  thought  I  jras  ready  for,  and  that  God  was  ready 
to  give  me  ? 

How  did  I  know?  I  said  I  had  nol  found  God.  What 
could  I  expect  of  that  life,  having  failed  miserably  in  this? 
What  should  come  of  the  seed  that  was  black-moulded  in  the 
furrow?' 

So  I  walked  on,  in  a  blind  shadow. 

My  old  life  fell  away  from  me ;  the  last  sign  and  frame- 
work of  it  went  down,  leaving  me  to  stand  alone  in  the  life 
that  I  had  made. 

Aunt  Ildy  died  before  the  spring.  She  took  cold,  and  the 
doctor  said  it  was  pneumonia.  That  was  the  outside  ailment. 


A   STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  409 

We  knew  when  the  wind  came,  "out  of  the  sea,"  smiting  the 
one  point  of  her  narrowed,  intense  vitality,  and  when  she 
began  to  die.  That  is  the  point  behind,  which  doctors  never 
do  know. 

Lucretia  went  away,  down  East,  among  her  kindred. 

John  Eveleith  hired  the  house  and  the  store  of  me,  married  a 
wife,  and  brought  her  there. 

Hope  came  back  to  the  Farm. 

I  took  home  Aunt  Ildj^'s  linen  and  silver,  and  all  her  house- 
hold treasures.  How  strange  that  seemed !  Her  spoons, 
her  pillow-cases  and  tablecloths,  —  why,  they  had  always 
seemed  augustly  different  from  any  I  could  ever  have  !  Hers 
was  real,  old,  solemn  house-keeping.  Mine  was  as  a  child's, 
—  a  make-believe.  I  wipe  those  teaspoons  reverently  now, 
with  the  fear  of  her  eyQ  upon  me. 

It  was  brighter  for  having  Hope  again.  It  always  was. 
Out-doors,,  and  iu-doors  ;  weather,  housework,  needle-work, 
books,  —  all  were  pleasanter  and  cheerier. 

Richard  looked  more  as  he  used  to  do,  —  before  I  came, 
and  worried  him.  Something  of  the  old  times  crept  back, 
even  across  the  spoiling  I  had  made. 

We  had  a  book,  one  day,  Hope  and  I ;  a  story  we  were 
reading.  "  How  real  it  seems,  this  living  in  books  !  "  I  said. 
"As  if  we  opened  some  secret  door,  or  looked  down  put  of 
some  sky  into  a  human  world,  seeing  the  whole  of  it ;  know- 
ing the  whys,  holding  the  spell,  and  the  key,  that  we  might 
drop,  or  whisper,  and  help  it  all  out  with.  Only  that  we  can't 
reach  into  a  dream !  How  strauge  it  is  that  books  should 
ever  have  been  made  ;  that  there  should  be  such  a  life  inside 
our  living !  That  it  should  be  so  much  to  us,  and  yet  that  it 
should  be  really  nothing  at  all !  " 

"  It  would  have  been  stranger  if  the  books  had  not  been 
made,"  said  Hope.  "  Then  there  would  have  been  something 
in  the  world  without  any  shadow  or  image.  Because  the 
reading  is  true.  There's  always  a  reading  like  that ;  and  a 
watching  and  an  entering  in ;  and  we're  the  stories.  It's  to 
let  us-know,  and  to  learn  us  how." 


410  HITHERTO: 

"  I  wonder  if  anj'body  is  reading  over  me,  —  over  us"  I 
said,  for  I  was  impatient  of  the  miserable  "  me." 

"  Yes,  ever  so  many,"  answered  Hope.  "  God  is  ;  and  the 
'innumerable  company  ! '  —  I  am,  Anstiss." 

"  Read  on,  then.     Turn  over  the  leaf." 

"  God  .turns  over  the  leaves  ;  but  a  little  wind  raises  them, 
sometimes,  and  I  —  standing  by,  you  know  —  can  catch  a 
word,  or  a  line,  or  the  look  of  a  page.  I  think  I  have  seen 
what  is  coming." 

"  Tell  me  then.  There  has  no  leaf  turned  over  for  ever  so 
long,  Hope  ;  I  have  looked  till  the  spelling  is  all  strange  ! " 

"  Then  you  have  come  out  of  the  real  reading.  That  is 
what  we  have  done  when  we  begin  to  see  the  letters  so.  You 
must  go  in  again  ;  3-011  must  forget ;  then  you  will  see  ;  then 
the  leaf  will  turn.  And  you  will.  That  is  what  I  see  for 
you.  I  see,  for  all  this  'heavy  reading,  —  close  and  packed 
with  hard  thinking,  that  the  little  children  always  skip,  —  the 
story  coming  again ;  things  happening ;  bright  words ;  it 
looks  '  pretty '  again ;  it  grows  simple  and  easy.  Anstiss, 
there  is  love  in  it.  There  is  love  in  you,  dear,  that  you  don't 
half  know  of  yet ;  love  that  will  ache,  if  you  don't  let  it  be 
glad ;  it  must  make  you  know,  somehow.  —  Never  mind  the 
book  and  the  leaves  ;  you  are  the  book." 

She  flung  it  away  as  it  were  with  a  gesture  of  her  hand. 

She  came  over  to  me. 

"  I  see  you.  And  I  know  it  is  in  you  to  be  a  sweet,  joyful 
woman,  taking  God's  love  out  of  the  hand  he  sends  it  by,  and 
giving  back  that  he  has  trusted  you  with  in  return.  For  him  ; 
for  Richard  ;  and  —  think !  he  will  never  get  it  except  from 

you!" 

She  had  come  close  to  me,  and  knelt  down  beside  me ;  her 
arm  was  round  me ;  her  face  looked  into  mine ;  there  were 
tears  in  her  glowing  eyes. 

"  You  see  I  know  so  well  it  is  in  you,"  she  repeated. 

"  It  is  in  me,  Hope  ;  but  it  wants  something  !  It  can't  live  ! 
He  might  believe,  and  I  might  believe ;  the  right,  the  need, 
might  be  in  each  of  us  ;  but  if  it  is  hushed  up,  —  if  it  wants  a 
language !  " 


A    STORY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  411 

"  Well ;  He  maketh  even  the  dumb  to  speak.  The  word 
shall  not  return  to.  Him  void,  but  it  shall  prosper  in  the  thing 
whereto  He  sends  it.  You  must  believe  that  His  word  for  you 
is  in  Richard  Hathaway's  heart.  You  must  be  glad  of  it  even 
before  it  comes ;  as  you  were  of  that  little  child  before  it 
came,  Anstiss.  It  will  come  in  heaven,  if  it  doesn't  all  come 
here." 

"  Oh,  that  little  child  !  "  I  broke  forth,  crying.  "  It  is  as 
if  I  never  had  it.  I  cannot  think  I  ever  did." 

"Yes;  you  —  ever  —  did,"  Hope  answered,  slowly,  giving 
me  the  thought  as  it  came  to  her. 

"  The  strangest  time  —  if  it  could  be  —  would  be  the  time 
that  wasn't.  But  everything  always  was.  You  never  did  not 
have  little  Richie  ! " 

"  Hope  !     You  strange  woman !  " 

My  tears  dried,  astonished. 

"  You  see  it  is  all  so  safe,  —  from  the  beginning.  "We  can- 
not miss  of  anything,  or  lose  anything.  That  little,  tender 
love  was  with  you,  —  in  you,  —  all  your  life  ;  waiting.  You. 
just  had  the  short  sign  of  it,  and  then  the  cloud  took  it  again. 
'  Our  life  is  hid  —  with  Christ  —  in  God.'  I've  just  thought 
of  it  so!  And  God  glorified  him  with  the  glory  that  he  had 
with  him  before  the  world  was  !  " 

The  light,  instantly  received,  was  in  Hope's  wonderful  eyes. 

"  How  do  you  get  these  things?  "  I  asked  her,  marvelling ; 
as  the  Jews  asked  the  Lord. 

"  They  come,"  she  answered,  simply. 


412  HITHERTO: 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

WHAT   HOPE   TOLD    RICHARD. 

HOPE  came  down  into  the  long  barn. 

She  had  a  little  willow  basket  in  her  hand  ;  going  to  look 
for  eggs,  in  the  great  sweet  mow. 

Hope  always  found  eggs  ;  just  as  she  did  her  white,  beauti- 
ful thoughts.  They  were  right  there ;  ready  laid  for  her ; 
how  could  she  help  it? 

The  search  was  "  like  something,"  as  the  hay-field  had 
been.  In  a  wide  sweetness  and  generousness  and  rest,  won- 
derful things  lay  hidden,  put  away  for  her  to  come  and.  find  ; 
things  pure,  like  pearls ;  with  life  in  them,  also.  In  the 
secret  places,  and  in  the  quietness. 

There  is  something  strangely  pleasant  and  suggestive  in 
the  stillness  of  a  great  country  barn,  when  one  is  all  alone  in 
it.  The  mysterious  nearness  comes  about  one  that  is  only 
felt  when  one  is  away,  apart ;  in  some  safe,  beautiful  hush. 

Hope  went  up  the  steep,  narrow,  smooth-worn  stairs,  brown 
and  polished  with  much  treading,  and  years  of  seedy  plenty. 
There  was  a  space  around  the  front,  on  the  upper  floor,  past 
the  great  window,  leading  over  to  the  mangers.  From  this 
the  hay  sloped  up,  filling  the  warm,  fragrant  chamber. 

She  went  up  a  little  way,  climbing  the  elastic  heap ;  then 
she  sat  down  a  minute,  taking  in  the  sweet  companioning  of 
the  loneliness  ;  she  never  liked  to  go  for  eggs  in  a  liuriy. 

Tken  she  heard  movements  by  the  mangers,  away  over 
behind  ;  some  one  of  the  men  was  there,  tossing  down  hay. 

But  presently  came  Richard's  voice  :  — 

"  Hope  !      Is  that  you  ?  " 

"  Yes.     I've  come  for  eggs." 

She  heard  him  move  around  toward  her,  brushing  the  rust- 


A   STOUT  OF   YESTERDAYS.  413 

ling  hay  as  he  pressed  along.  He  approached  slowly ;  when 
he  came  before  her,  he  stopped,  put  one  foot  up  on  a  low, 
gathered  ridge  of  the  broken  mow,  leaned  his  arm  across  his 
knee  and  polled  out  hay-stems,  which  he  doubled  and  bent 
and  turned  in  his  fingers. 

"  Hope  !  tell  me  what  to  do,"  he  said. 

Hope's  heart  beat  quick.  She  did  not  say  "  About  what?  " 
as  most  would  have  done,  to  break  a  silence,  and  to  lead  him 
on.  She  knew  what  it  was. 

"  God  will  tell  you  what  to  do,  Richard,"  she  answered, 
presently.  "He  does.  You  do  do." 

It  is  almost  too  simple  and  unfinished  to  write  down.  They 
were  the  first  words  which  came.  The  meaning  and  the  feeling 
overleaped  them.  They  said  a  great  deal  to  Richard  Hatha- 
way. There  was  a  great  deal  more  for  him  in  Hope  Devine's 
heart,  which  neither  they  nor  any  words  could  say. 

"  I  think  I  want  to  be  told  what  to  undo.  I  can't  go  back. 
How  can  I  make  up  ?  " 

"  That  isn't  the  word,  Richard.  You  are  laying  up  all  the 
time.  You  must  just  be,  what  you  are  ;  and  wait  until  she 
sees.  Then  her  heart  will  be  all  broken  with  love  and  repent- 
ance —  one  of  these  da}- s.  It  can't  help  it." 

Hope's  voice  trembled. 

"  She  grows  thinner  and  thinner  ;  she  worries,  and  blames 
herself.  There  is  a  great  growth  in  her  that  she  wants  to 
give  away,  —  that  she  thinks  she  ought  to  give  to  me.  And 
I  —  can't  hold  it.  I'm  a  simple  man,  Hope;  I  can  just  live 
on  and  do  for  her  as  I  know  how.  It's  like  the  story  in  the 
Bible  ;  she  hasn't  where  to  bestow  all  her  fruits  and  her  goods  ; 
she  needs  to  pull  down  her  barns  and  build  greater.  I  c]on't 
know,  Hope,  but  I  ought  to  let  her  go  !  " 

"  Richard  !  " 

"  I  don't  mean  to  break  everything  up  ;  that  isn't  the  way 
of  quiet  people  like  us  ;  and  I  can't  put  her  back,  as  I  said. 
But  I  might  do  something.  Old  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cope  are  going 
to  Europe  by  and  by ;  in  the  summer.  I  might  let  her  go 
with  them.  Wouldn't  they  have  her  ?  " 

"  O  you  great  heart!"  cried  Hope  Devine,  involuntarily. 


414  HITHERTO : 

"  No,"  said  Eichard,  lifting  for  an  instant  eyes  that  had  a 
surprise  upon  their  sadness.  "  Only  honest.  Only  doing  as 
I  would  be  done  by,  as  near  as  I  can." 

"  Only  that,"  said  Hope,  with  the  same  tone  in  her  voice, 
restrained. 

"Would  it  be  better?" 

"No,"  said  Hope,  instantly.  "Don't  think  it  of  her  that 
she  would  go  ;  and  don't  think  it  of  yourself  that  all  Europe 
is  any  bigger  or  any  better  for  her  than  you  can  be.  Why, 
Richard  !  "  she  went  on,  lighting  up  ;  "  this  is  a  beautiful 
farm  of  yours,  and  worked  and  tended  beautifully.  And  full, 
all  over,  of  kind,  sweet  things,  pleasant  to  have,  and  that 
people  must  have  every  day  ;  but  after  all  it's  only  the  top  of 
it !  You  don't  think  you've  got  at,  or  brought  out,  all  there  is  ! 
It's  yours,  for  all  that  any  man  can  say,  way  down  to  the 
very  middle  ;  to  the  rocks,  and  coals,  and  fires.  And  think 
of  the  things  that  are  there  ;  the  things  that  are  laid  away  ! 
Whenever  they  are  wanted,  they  will  be  found  and  come  to 
light.  Now,  the  farm  is  the  best,  perhaps.  In  other  places 
the  ground  is  tossed  and  torn  up  ;  and  there  is  no  quiet,  small 
planting  and  growing ;  but  gold  is  coming  out,  or  iron,  or 
coal.  There  are  men's  minds  and  lives  like  that.  God  orders 
it,  and  it  is  good.  But  he  has  put  yours  here,  to  wait  awhile. 
Yet  you're  as  rich,  and  as  deep,  and  as  strong  as  they  are ; 
and  it's  out  of  the  strength  of  the  deep  things  that  the  pleas- 
ant things  grow.  It's  all  in  you,  Richard  ;  and  if  she  looks 
for  it,  she  will  find  it — someday!  I  suppose  that  is  what 
people  are  married  for ;  that  they  may  take  a  great,  long 
time,  away  beyond  the  world,  perhaps ;  if  it  were  all 
made  out  and  measured  from  the  first,  what  would  the  living 
be  for?  It  is  a  will  be;  it  isn't  an  is." 

"  Sometimes  it  begins  sooner,  though  ;  I  don't  want  all  her 
life  to  be  a  hungry  waiting.  Hope  !  I  think  —  people  say  it 
without  much  thinking  sometimes  — I  think  I  could  lay  down 
my  life  for  her." 

He  said  it  very  gravely  and  gently  ;  there  was  no  exclama- 
tion point  in  his  voice  ;  it  was  a  plain,  true  period. 

"  I  think  you  could.     '  Greater  love  hath  no  man  than  this,' 


A   STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  415 

Richard.     And  love  is  the  greatest  of  all.     You  two  love  one 
another." 

"We  — two?" 

Something  in  those  slow,  separate  words,  and  that  empha- 
sis, touched  for  Hope  a  yet  higher  chord  of  perception. 

"  And  yet  two  do  not  make  a  perfect  love,"  she  said. 

It  was  strange  how  she  sat  there,  this  girl,  saying  what  she 
had  not  had  it  in  her  mind  to  say  a  minute  before  ;  speaking, 
truly,  as  the  Spirit  taught  her  at  the  instant  how.  Every  act, 
every  word,  eveiy  perception  in  life,  brought  her  always, 
surely,  to  the  next ;  she  stumbled  and  she  failed  at  nothing, 
because  she  walked  in  the  light. 

It  was  strange,  too,  that  she  sat  there,  saying  these  things 
to  this  man,  whom  she  might  have  loved  and  married.  She 
just  gave  as  it  was  given  to  her ;  as  she  was  sent  to  do. 

Richard  Hathaway  looked  up  again. 

"  Two  do  not  make  a  perfect  love? " 

He  did  not  understand.  He  thought,  instantly,  of  his  little 
lost  Richie ;  of  the  dead  Richie,  buried  in  Broadfielcls 
church-yard  out  there,  over  the  hill ;  of  the  vacancy  in  their 
home  ;  of  what  might  have  been  between  them  two. 

But  this  girl  did  not  mean  that.  She  would  not  tell  him 
of  this  loss,  this  lack,  in  such  manner. 

His  eyes,  his  grave,  lifted  brows,  questioned  and  waited. 

"No.  It  must  be  joined.  It  must  be  a  whole  thing,  and 
perfectly  beautiful,  before  it  is  done.  It  must  be  — '  in  the 
Lord.' " 

Hope's  face  was  like  the  face  of  an  angel.  She  saw  afar  off. 
The  word,  that  fed  her  always,  came,  rushing  in  upon  her 
spirit,  like  the  tongues  of  old.  She  saw  things  that  she  did 
not  really  know.  She  spoke  of  what  she  had  never  thought 
of  or  been  taught. 

"  Isn't  that  what  the  triangle  means?  Isn't  it  only  because 
some  line  of  light  comes  down  to  each,  that  there  must  run  a 
line  between  ?  Why,  I  don't  know  anything  but  the  name  of 
it ;  but  I  think  that  is  what  Trigonometry  stands  for ;  the 
signs  of  the  lines  that  measure  all  through  heaven,  between 
the  souls  !  Three  lines  are  the  least  that  can  make  a  form  of 


416  HITHERTO: 

anything.  Three  sides  make  the  prism,  and  divide  all  the 
beauty.  Isn't  it  everywhere  like  a  network  of  beautiful 
threads,  —  the  love  that  is  between  each  two  of  us,  and  be- 
tween each  one  of  us  and  God;  holding  us  all  together?  — 
Isn't  that  where  the  thought  of  the  Trinity  came  from  ?  — 
God,  arid  his  Son,  and  the  world  ;  and  the  Spirit,  reaching  all 
through?  For,  He  loveth  the  Son;  and  He  so  loveth  the 
world.  And  then, — if  the  world  will  love  the  Sou  ;  —  it  is 
whole,  it  is  one,  it  is  safe  again  !  " 

She  forgot,  half,  that  she  was  talking.  Her  mind  sprang 
from  point  to  point.  She  turned,  as  it  were,  the  ciystal  of 
her  precious  thought  in  her  hands,  and  the  lights  flashed  forth, 
as  from  the  facets  of  a  diamond. 

Heart  and  voice  thrilled  all  through  when  the  last  came ; 
came  and  was  spoken  as  instantly  as  the  rest ;  but  the  tone 
lowered  and  intensified,  and  the  eyes  looked  more  afar,  and 
the  face  was  yet  more  radiant. 

Richard  stood  still ;  his  head  bowed  a  little,  as  if  a  prayer 
had  been  made  in  a  church  ;  he  was  hushed  with  surprise,  too  ; 
people  do  not  often  talk  like  that ;  he  had  no  answer,  cer- 
tainly. 

Besides,  there  was  always  in  him  the  old  feeling,  grown  of 
early  training  in  the  New  England  notions  of  religion,  that 
he  had  no  right ;  that  he  was  not  a  participant ;  he  let  it  go 
by  him,  with  a  wistfulness  perhaps,  but  that  was  all ;  as  he 
le't  the  cup  of  the  communion  go  by  him  in  the  church. 

"  Hope,"  he  said,  presently,  speaking  from  this  feeling  of 
withoutness,  "  I  have  never  experienced  religion." 

"Yes,  you  have,"  said  Hope,  quickly.  "Everybody  has. 
—  No  !  Nobody  has  i  I  mean  —  it  is  the  will  be.  It  takes 
forever,  Richard.  If  yon  have  only  begun  to  be  married,  how 
can  you  more  than  have  begun  to  live  with  God?" 

"  But  there  must  be  the  beginning.  The  conviction,  the 
giving  up,  3'ou  know  ;  all  that ;  and  I  have  never  come  to  it. 
I  am  a  plain  fellow,  Hope  ;  I  can't  go  deep  in  anything.  I 
must  just  live  on." 

"  '  He  that  loveth,  dwelleth  in  God,  and  Ho  in  him  !  '  — 
'And  if  in  anything  3-0  be  otherwise  minded,  God  shall  reveal 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  417 

even  this  unto  you.'  —  It  will  all  come,  Richard  ;  just  as  sure 
as  you  now  love  every  living  thing. 

"  '  When  I  am  kind  to  others,  then 
•  I  know  myself  forgiven.' 

"  Some  old  hymn  says  that,  and  you  make  me  think  of  it." 

Tears  stood  in  Richard  Hathaway's  eyes. 

He  straightened  himself  then  ;  flung  away  the  bits  of  hay 
he  had  been  breaking  and  measuring,  and  said  to  Hope  as  he 
made  a  movement  to  go,  and  end  the  talk  :  — 

"  I  don't  know  as  I've  got  hold  of  anything  ;  but  it  seems 
as  if  I  had.  You  make  things  look  somehow  different.  If 
there  was  only  more  in  me  —  " 

"  I  tell  you  it  is  all  in  you.  You  are  greater  than  you  know 
you  are,"  said  Hope,  rising  and  coming  down  beside  him. 
"  And  if  it  wasn't,  you  know  what  He  told  the  woman,  —  l  Go, 
call  your  husband,  and  come  hither.'  It's  all  in  Him.  And 
when  we  are  close  to  Him,  we  are  close  together,  and  there's 
just  one  giving  for  both.  And  the  lines  are  joined,  and  it 
makes,  —  why,  I  remember  now,  Richard,  there's  a  triangle 
in  music!  —  it  makes  a  clear  beat  of  joy  !  " 

Richard  Hathaway  put  forth  both  his  hands,  and  took  hers 
in  them. 

"  The  first  thing  you  ever  told  me,  Hope,  was  your  name. 
And  you've  been  telling  it  to  me  ever  since;"  he  said. 

Then  he  let  her  go,  and  turned  away,  down  the  steep,  old 
stairs. 

27 


418  HITHERTO : 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 

BLIND    FERNS. 

ONE  day,  that  spring,  Grandon  Cope  rode  over  to  the 
Farm. 

He  had  some  business  with  Richard,  and  went  down  after 
him  through  the  fields. 

He  brought  also  some  volumes  of  Ruskin  for  me,  and  when 
he  came  back  to  the  house,  he  stopped  to  tell  me  about  them. 

"You  will  thoroughly  enjoy  Ruskin,"  he  said.  "  He  goes 
where  you  will  most  delight  to  follow.  He  finds  the  thought 
that  is  in  things.  He  does  not  stop  at  an}'  cold  analysis  of 
art,  or  technicality  of  science  ;  he  touches,  reverently,  the 
great  secrets;  the  Word  that  is  in  the  world.  He  tells  you 
of  beautiful  impulses  and  limits  in  tree  growths,  and  their 
life-instincts  seem  to  you  like  souls.  You  stand  with  him 
among  the  mountains,  and  you  feel  God." 

"  Sometimes,"  I  said,  "  I  almost  think  I  had  better  keep 
out  of  the  mountains." 

I  suppose  my  trouble  was  in  my  face,  and  in  my  voice. 

.Grandon  Cope  looked  at  me  kindly,  inquiringly. 

"  I  don't  bring  it  down.  If  I  were  right  and  true,  I  should 
not  need  to  go  so  high  or  deep.  And  things  would  not  puzzle 
me  so." 

I  had  my  fingers  upon  the  books,  searching  idly  among 
their  leaves. 

" '  To  bring  Christ  down  from  above,  or  up  out  of  the 
depths  ? '  No  ;  we  know  we  do  not  need  that.  Yet  I  think 
such  apprehensions  as  Ruskin's  help  and  kindle.  I  think 
they  are  a  great  good  in  the  world." 

"  It  seems  as  if  I  went  off,  alone,  after  the  best,  with  a  kind 
of  presumption.  I  ought  to  find  it  and  live  it,  among  them  all. 


A    STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  419 

Eight  here,  with  Hope,  and  Martha,  and  Richard,  every  da}T. 
Hope  does.  She  doesn't  need  great  things.  It  is  always  in 
her  mouth,  and  in  her  heart.  I  feel  mean  and  false  beside 
her,  pretending  to  high  things,  and  reaching  nothing." 

"Hope  would  like  this,  too,"  said  Mr.  Cope.  I  think  he 
hardly  knew  how  to  understand  me. 

"  Hope  has  a  right  to  like  it.  She  is  real  and  beautiful,  all 
through. — But  I  am  not  thanking  you,  Mr.  Cope.  I  do, 
very  much  ;  and  I  shall  not  be  able  to  help  reading,  and  en- 
joying, whether  I  deserve  or  not.  —  But  I  wish,"  —  I  said 
this  after  a  pause,  —  "it  would  be  so  much  less  selfish,  —  I  do 
wish  Richard  cared  !  " 

He  saw  through  my  miserable  dissatisfactions,  then.  He 
saw  where  my  life  halted.  He  laid  his  hand  upon  the  books, 
which  I  had  left. 

"Dear  Mrs.  Hathaway,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "  don't  read 
this,  or  think  this,  or  anything,  if  it  makes  you  seem  farther 
from  your  husband.  You  can  come  near  to  nothing  nobler  or 
truer  than  he  is.  Reading  and  writing  are  about  the  Eternal 
Beauty.  Living  and  loving  are  close  to  and  in  it.  There  are 
spirits  of  love,  and  spirits  of  wisdom  ;  and  the  spirits  of  love 
are  nearest.  Heart-truth  is  the  realit}^ ;  thought-truth  only 
the  reflection.  '  Blood  is  thicker  than  water.'  These  things 
are  water  only ;  drops  of  the  water  of  life,  maj-be ;  but  "the 
blood  —  the  love  —  is  the  life.  Jesus  came  by  the  water,  and 
the  blood  ;  but  it  was  his  blood  that  he  gave  for  the  life  of 
the  world.  —  Richard  Hathaway  has  received  of  this.  He  is 
blood-related  to  it  all.  I  am  filled  with  reverence  when  I 
think  what  such  a  grandly  real  and  simple  nature  will  come 
to  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven.  It  was  of  that  childlike  direct- 
ness,—  that  unconscious,  great  out-living,  —  that  the  Lord 
said  '  Take  heed  that  ye  despise  it  not ;  for  it  doth  always 
behold  the  Face  of  my  Father.'  " 

Brave,  and  true,  and  generous.  Spoken  as  one  soul  to  an- 
other ;  as  few  men  could  or  would  have  spoken  to  a  woman. 

A  common,  indifferent  man  might  have  been  contemptuous 
of  what  he  saw  in  me,  —  if,  indeed,  it  could  have  been  shown 
to  him,  or  he  could  have  understood ;  a  true  man,  self-con- 


420  HITHERTO  : 

scious  and  timid,  might  have  shrunk  and  been  afraid  ;  a  sel- 
fish—  a  bad — a  tempted  one,  —  well,  women  have  been 
near  such  in  their  moments  of  need  and  bewilderment,  and 
what  was  I  that  I  should  have  been  safer  than  they? 

He  dared  to  tell  me  not  to  despise.  He  dared  to  touch 
close  my  hidden  unsoundness  ;  to  show  me  Richard,  my  hus- 
band, as  he  stood,  noble  and  beautiful,  to  his  perception,  and 
ought  to  stand  to  mine.  He  could  see,  not  a  want,  but  a  pure 
and  large  awaiting  in  him,  that  should  be  surely  and  glori- 
ously filled  ;  he  could  bid  me  discern  and  wait  beside  it ;  if, 
haply,  I  might  be  worthy  yet  to  dwell  anigh  when  the  river 
of  God's  fulness  should  flow  through. 

He  dared  to  do  it  instantly  ;  to  strike  to  the  very  core  and 
marrow  of  the  truth  ;  to  speak  to  me  as  Christ  spoke  to  the 
Woman  of  Samaria. 

"  Did  you  ever  see  the  blind  ferns  in  spring?  As  they  are 
looking  now,  under  your  walls  ?  " 

I  had  never  seen  or  noticed  them  so. 

"  We  are  all  like  that,"  he  said.  "  Folded  up,  more  or  less, 
according,  perhaps,  to  the  tenderness  and  beauty  in  us,  — 
till  we  get  above  the  earth  and  stones,  safe  out  into  the  upper 
air  and  glory.  It  is  the  dream  we  stand  in,  side  by  side,  as 
they  do.  Some  of  us  have  opened  a  few  fronds,  quivering, 
half  unfurled ;  wondering  and  shrinking  among  the  roots 
and  thorns  ;  some  stand  tall  and  strong,  reserved;  kept  for  a 
larger  and  more  perfect  grace.  You  must  go  out  and  see 
your  ferns,  Mrs.  Hathaway.  They  will  tell  }<ou  many 
things." 

He  made  me  ashamed,  and  yet  he  paid  me  a  reverence.  I 
was  worth  being  spoken  to  so.  He  believed  that  I  desired 
the  truth,  and  would  bear  it.  And  Richard  Hathaway  could 
bear  being  spoken  of.  There  was  nothing  in  him  —  no  lack 
or  absence  —  that  needed  to  be  ignored. 

I  know  I  should  have  hated  Grandon  Cope  if  he  could  have 
spoken  otherwise.  That  is  why  I  cannot  quite  understand 
what  happens  sometimes,  in  just  such  perplexities  of  women, 
and  just  such  friendships,  apparently,  of  men. 

I  went  out  that  next  day  to  see  the  ferns. 


A    STOJIY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  421 

They,  stood  there,  all  along  under  the  orchard  wall,  in 
nooks  between  the  broad,  rough  stones  ;  on  turfy  knolls  about 
the  rugged  roots  of  trees. 

Hooded,  and  bowed ;  a  folded  grace,  an  unrevealed  gloiy. 
They  were  like  spectres,  chrysalids  ;  unmoving  in  the  soft 
spring  air  ;  unknowing  themselves  or  each  other ;  rolled  into 
that  strange,  uncouth  form,  giving  no  sign  of  what  they 
should  be ;  fitted  only  for  pushing  up  into  the  light  that 
should  draw  forth  their  tender,  wonderful  beauty. 

Here  and  there  was  one  just  awaking ;  looking  timidly 
round  into  the  new  world  out  of  its  sleep  ;  looking  upon  the 
blind  ones  close  by,  tarrying  their  change,  that  was  close  by 
also.  These  saw  it  not  in  themselves,  what  it  should  be,  nor 
in  those,  what  it  was  already.  They  were  the  freed  and  the 
unfreed. 

Two  or  three  days  more,  — what  mattered  it,  the  difference 
or  the  waiting,  then?  two  or  three  days  more,  —  a  few  roll- 
ings of  the  great  Sun  through  the  deep  and  generous  blue, 
touching  patiently  leaf  after  leaf  on  his  spring-path  over  the 
greening  latitudes,  —  and  they  should  stand  in  feathery 
prime,  saluting  each  other  with  broad,  delicate  fronds  ;  heap- 
ing high,  beautiful  banks  of  plumy  verdure,  like  clouds  of  em- 
erald mist  rolled  up  around  the  stanch  old  pillars  of  the  trees, 
and  about  the  pale,  gray  rocks. 

I  stood  and  read. 

"  We  shall  not  all  sleep,  but  we  shall  all  be  changed." 

Nothing  shall  sleep,  or  wait,  forever.  "We  might  be  patient 
for  ourselves.  We  might  be  believing  for  each  other.  We 
might  be  more  gladly  conscious  of  the  blessed  world  to  come, 
which  is  only  a  world  of  light  and  air  about  us  that  we  are 
blind  to ;  into  which  some,  yet  rooted  near  us,  have  opened 
out  their  perfected  life  ;  opened  out  into  God,  in  whom  also 
we  bide,  and  shall  unfold. 

But  is  this  blind  biding  all,  for  this  world?  Are  we  all 
fern  growths?  Is  that  what  people  are  married  for?  What 
they  love  and  long  for?  Only  to  stand,  and  reach,  and  grope, 
side  by  side,  and  still  alone?  I  could  not  make  it  answer 
everything.  All  living  did  not  seem  to  me  like  this. 


422  HITHERTO: 

A  step  came  up  behind  me.     It  was  Richard. 

He  asked  me  what  I  was  doing  there ;  asked  me  gently, 
with  the  pleasure  in  his  voice  there  always  was  at  first,  when 
he  came  upon  me  anywhere,  not  having  looked  for  me. 

"Are  we  two  like  that?"  I  questioned  suddenly,  pointing 
to  the  ferns. 

It  was  too  sudden.  I  had  no  business  to  speak  so  ;  I  did 
not  mean  to.  I  do  not  know  why  I  did  ;  out  of  the  recoil  of 
my  thought,  instead  of  from  its  first  true,  fresh  impulse.  How 
could  he  see  anything  but  the  folded  solitariness,  —  the 
estrangement  ? 

His  face  changed.  The  pleasantness  died  out  of  it ;  quenched, 
as  I  had  the  horrible  power  to  quench  it,  and  the  strange 
fatality  to  do,  in  those  days. 

"  I  do  not  know,  Anstiss.  I  cannot  follow  you  in  all  your 
fancies.  I  think  it  is  damp  for  you  to  be  standing  here,  and 
that  3rou  had  better  come  in." 

I  turned  and  went  in  with  him.     What  was  the  use  ? 

I  came  down  out  of  my  fancies. 

I  made  a  tansy-pudding  for  dinner  that  day ;  the  delicate 
spring  dainty  that  Richard  was  fond  of. 

I  tried  to  be  happy  in  the  homely,  wifely  way. 

I  wonder  if  he  saw  that  I  tried.     I  think  he  did. 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  423 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

THE  "NEXT"  FOR   HOPE. 

WHAT  was  the  reason  that  nothing  took  hold,  or  stayed  by? 
That  I  could  look  at  these  things,  see  them,  read  them,  rejoice 
even  against  myself  at  the  truth  that  was  in  them,  and  then 
turn  away  into  rny  life,  finding  it  just  the  same,  —  making  it 
no  different  ? 

'I  know  now.  I  began  my  Bible  at  the  wrong  end.  I  looked 
in  all  things  for  an  apocalypse,  instead  of  for  a  simple  gospel. 
What  Richard's  mother  had  said,  years  before,  was  true  then, 
and  had  been  true  in  all  my  life,  ever  since.  I  forgot  Matthew, 
Mark,  Luke,  and  John.  I  had  got  to  go  back  and  read 
through  all  these,  before  I  could  come  to  Revelation. 

I  looked  at  the  truth,  and  I  saw  it  lovely ;  but  I  did  not 
purely  and  guilelessly  enter  in.  I  looked  at  God.  I  did  not 
live,  like  a  child,  in  the  great,  safe  Heart  of  my  Father.  I 
beheld  through  some  of  his  beautiful  signs,  as  it  were  my  own 
face  in  a  glass,  and  went  away,  forgetting.  I  did  not  know 
that  the  letter  alone,  rich  and  glorious  though  it  might  be, 
should  kill  me  ;  that  the  dear  and  intimate  spirit  only  should 
give  me  life.  I  reached  after  knowledges ;  I  brought  back 
treasures  from  afar ;  then  I  was  like  the  laden  camel  at  the 
gate  of  the  city ;  he  should  sooner  go  through  the  Needle's 
Eye  than  I  should,  that  way,  find  the  kingdom  and  the  peace 
everlasting. 

All  the  while,  with  a  love  the  tenderer  for  its  pain,  the  truer 
for  its  denial,  the  life  at  my  side  was  speaking,  teaching  me  ; 
saying  always,  "  And  yet  show  I  unto  you  a  more  excellent 
way." 

The  "  might  have  been !  "  That  stood  between.  It  did,  — 
it  did ! 


424  HITHERTO: 

Maud  Miiller  was  not  the  first. 

Thousands  of  women,  —  good,  or  meaning  to  be  good, — 
turning  swiftly  away  from  the  very  shadow  of  evil,  —  have 
caught,  without  looking  for  it,  the  strange  side-glimpse  of  this 
shadow,  sent  from  some  far-off  or  far-back  shining. 

I  knew  it  might  have  been.  I  could  not  help  the  knowl- 
edge. 

I  have  thought  it  out  in  the  days  since  then ;  the  days  long 
since  these  others  that  I  call  up  now  ;  in  'those  I  should  not 
have  dared  to  think  of  it  deliberately  ;  yet  it  was  in  those 
days  that  the  secret  perception  came.  Did  I  sin  the  sin  of  the 
heart?  I  asked  and  answered  myself  this,  afterward. 

The  deeper  I  went  on  into  life,  the  better  I  knew,  however 
secretl}',  how,  with  a  very  little,  all  might  have  been  different. 
It  would  have  seemed  to  me  in  those  first  years,  long  ago, 
before  either  of  us  married,  such  a  strange  and  great  and  won- 
derful thing  to  have  had  a  love  come  to  me  like  Grandon 
Cope's,  that  I  never  looked  for  it ;  never  dreamed  a  dream 
from  which  the  awakening  would  have  been  shipwreck  of  hope. 
It  only  passed  by  me  near  enough  for  the  light  upon  its  golden 
wings  to  dazzle  me  ;  to  leave  a  pain  that  I  hardly  understood, 
except  that  it  was  an  ache  for  a  time  afterward,  in  looking 
upon  duller  things. 

But  it  did  not  seem  strange  to  me  to  have  his  friendship, 
now.  I  knew  that  he  was  strongly  drawn  to  me  ;  that  he  found 
much  in  me  answering  to  what  I  found  in  him.  I  knew  that 
it  would  not  have  been  utterly  strange  and  impossible,  given 
other  conditions,  that  we  should  have  come  to  be  that  to  each 
other  which  man  and  woman  may  be,  but  which,  out  of  the 
myriad  men  and  women  who  catch  at  life  haphazard,  as  it 
seems,  —  the  myriad  men  and  women  born  and  placed  and 
drifted  here  and  there,  apart  on  the  earth  and  in  the  genera- 
tions, —  apart  by  little  jolts  of  misdirection  like  a  blinding  fault 
in  a  mine  when  the  lead  may  be  close  by,  —  hardly  two"  of  a, 
lifetime  ever  do  come  to  be  perfectly ;  all  this  thrust  itself 
into  my  consciousness,  deep  down,  among  the  things  we  know 
and  will  not  know. 

I  knew  that,  being  true,  it  was  manifest  to  him  also ;  that 


A    STORY   OF    YKSTKHDAYS.  425 

his  being  upright,  and  great  of  soul,  and  pure  of  purpose,  did 
not  hinder,  could  not  hinder,  in  Grandon  Cope  some  glimpse 
of  this  ;  it  only  took  away  some  of  the  possibilities  that  re- 
mained. 

There  are  unspoken  perceptions  like  this  ;  there  are  things 
we  shall  be  able  to  look  at  in  the  light  of  the  life  to  come, 
that  we  may  not  look  at  now. 

But  was  it  a  wrong, — a  horrible  mistake,  —  my  marrying 
Richard?  Where  was  the  sure  instinct,  — the  spiritual  corre- 
lation, —  if  he  could  love  me  so,  —  "  with  every  thought  and 
fibre  of  him,  "  —  and  I  not  give  him  back  the  like? 

Plow  came  Grandon  Cope  to  love  Augusta  Hare  ? 

If  these  are  mistakes  and  wrongs,  they  are  mistakes  and 
wrongs  that  are  every  day  allowed  to  be. 

Out  of  all  my  life,  up  to  this  day,  I  have  found  but  one 
solution.  We  make  mistakes,  or  what  we  call  such.  The  na- 
ture that  could  fall  into  such  mistake  exactly  needs,  and  in  the 
goodness  of  the  dear  God  is  given,  the  living  of  it  out.  And 
bej'ond  this,  I  believe  more.  That  in  the  pure  and  patient 
living  of  it  out  we  come  to  find  that  we  have  fallen,  not  into 
hopeless  confusion  of  our  own  wild,  ignorant  making ;  but 
that  the  finger  of  God  has  been  at  work  among  our  lines,  and 
that  the  emerging  is  into  his  blessed  order ;  that  he  is  forever 
making  up  for  us  our  own  undoings  ;  that  he  makes  them  up 
beforehand  ;  that  he  evermore  restoreth  our  souls. 

But  I  could  not  think  this  then. 

I  could  not  even  live  back  into  what  I  had  lost.  Richard 
was  too  true,  too  simple,  to  understand  the  vibrations  of  a 
double- aspected  life  ;  to  see  how  I  could  sometimes  put  away 
that  which  was  myself,  to  rest  in  a  quieter,  a  safer  and  more 
bounded  self;  how  his  changeless  and  faithful  strength  held 
me  and  satisfied  me  there,  as  it  always  had  done ;  how  I 
longed  to  be  truly  and  wholly  one  with  him. 

He  was  tender  of  me,  as  if  he  had  done  me  some  great 
harm  that  no  tenderness  could  make  up.  Our  life  moved  on 
with  an  outer  peacefulness.;  nobody  would  have  thought  that 
we  were  ill,  or  half,  assorted.  But  the  gladness,  the  youth, 
were  gone  out;  we  were  a  man  and  woman  walking  OB  through 


426  HITHERTO: 

the  middle  wilderness  ;  he  had  followed  me  out  of  the  Eden, 
and  kept  loyally  by  my  side ;  and  I  had  only  him. 

One  day,  Mrs.  Cope  herself  came  out  from  South  Side  to 
see  me.  She  went  little  from  home,  in  these  days  ;  she  was 
become  an  invalid.  Her  ill  health  had  crept  from  a  negative 
to  a  positive  condition;  it  had  been,  for  years,  —  always, 
nearly,  —  a  mere  absence  of  robustness  ;  of  late,  people  said 
she  was  "  failing ; "  and  her  physician  counselled  change, 
which  had  often  been  of  benefit  before.  She  wanted  the  sea ; 
she  had  better  go  to  Europe  again. 

"  I  want  a  great  thing  of  you,"  she  said  to  me.  "  A  very 
generous  co-operation.  I  want  you  to  help  me  to  get  Hope 
Devine's  consent  to  go  abroad  with  me.  Laura  and  Kitty 
have  their  homes  and  their  cares  ;  Augusta  and  Grandon  will 
perhaps  come  out  and  join  us  for  a  time,  somewhere  ;  but  there 
are  the  little  boys,  and  I  could  not  wish,  either,  to  keep  them 
restricted  to  our  quiet  plans.  I  need  some  one  with  me  :ill 
the  time  ;  not  a  servant,  or  a  nurse,  but  a  friend  ;  just  such  a 
friend  as  Hope  would  be.  Will  you  say  a  word  for  me? 
Will  you  spare  her  ?  " 

How  "  all  these  things  "  were  being  added  to. Hope  !  How 
her  life  flowered  out,  without  her  taking  thought ! 

I  could  recognize  a  beautiful  thing  ;  a  thing  that  should  be  ; 
I  was  glad  for  her  with  all  my  heart. 

"  I  am  sure  she  will  go,"  I  said.  "  I  shall  not  be  able  to 
have  any  merit  in  it.  I  will  call  her  down  to  see  you." 

Hope  was  upstairs,  putting  away  linen  ;  we  had  been  look- 
ing it  over  together  ;  she  had  taken  out  some  to  mend  ;  it  was 
wprk  that  she  did  delicately. 

"  Hope,"  I  said,  coining  up  behind  her,  and  laying  my 
hands  on  her  shoulders,  "you  will  have  to  put  back  those 
tablecloths  to  wait  for  my  darning.  There  has  some  other 
work  turned  up  for  you  to  do.  Mrs.  Cope  has  it  for  you. 
Will  you  come  down  and  see  her  ?  " 

"Mrs.  Cope!  —  It  is  some  pleasure!  I  know  }Tonr  face, 
Anstiss ! " 

"  I  don't  believe  you  do,  —  upside  down  !  " 

She  was  looking  up  at  me,  as  I  stood  behind  her,  —  she  sit- 


A    STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  427 

ting  on  the  low  cricket  before  the  press  drawer,  with  all  the 
sorted  piles  about  her  on  the  floor. 

"  It  is —  '  what  is  going  to  be  done  with  you  next,'  "  I  said, 
thoughtfully.  I  began  to  be  curious  for  Hope  Devine.  Every 
turn  of  her  life  was  a  sure  move  in  an  unspoiled  game  ;  a 
beautiful  development;  a  touch  —  whether  it  were  a  shade 
or  a  high  light  —  upon  a  picture  growing  into  perfectness, 
upon  a  canvas  without  blot  or  blunder,  under  a  Master-Hand. 

Then  she  put  from  her  what  lay  upon  her  lap,  and  arose. 

"It  is  something  very  serious, — very  important,  "she 
said.  "  Something  with  an  ought,  perhaps  an  ought  not,  in 
it,  Anstiss." 

So  she  turned  to  the  looking-glass  for  a  moment,  passed  her 
band  lightly  across  her  shining  hair,  either  way,  took  off  her 
little  white  apron,  and  we  went  down. 

Mrs.  Cope  herself  told  her  what  she  had  come  for. 

She  sat  silent  at  first,  when  she  had  heard  ;  she  lifted  and 
lowered  her  e3^es,  glancing  here  and  there  unconsciously,  as  if 
she  looked  for  something ;  she  Avas  searching  in  her  mind  for 
the  impediment  it  seemed  as  if  there  must  be.  Could  it  be  so 
easy  and  so  plain  that  she  should  say,  right  off,  —  "  Yes,  I 
will  do  this  beautiful  thing.  I  will  go  with  you  to  Europe  "  ? 

"  Why  !  I  don't  see  —  yet  —  any  reason  why  not,  Mrs. 
Cope ! " 

She  could  not  have  told  her  readiness,  her  appreciation, 
better  than  by  that  surprised  allowing. 

"But  then,  I  have  only  begun  to  see  —  any  of  it!"  she 
added,  laughing.  "  How  quickly  things  do  happen  !  " 

"  Yes  ;  when  they  happen  right,"  said  Mrs.  Cope.  "  You 
have  not  asked  when,  or  how  long.  We  shall  sail  in  a  month 
from  New  York  for  Southampton  ;  we  shall  be  gone  a  year,  — 
perhaps  two.  It  will  depend  on  health.  We  mean  to  go  first 
to  the  Isle  of  Wight ;  then  to  Paris,  and  later  in  the  season  to 
the  south  of  France,  to  stay  awhile  among  the  P}Trenees ;  in 
the  winter,  we  shall  be  in  Italy  ;  and  next  summer,  if  all  goes 
well,  in  the  Swiss  mountains  and  in  Germany.  We  shall 
stay  quietly  in  each  successive  place.  It  will  be  living  about ; 
not  travelling  much.  Journeys  are  short  in  Europe." 


428  HITHERTO  : 

"T  cannot  think  how  it  should  corne  to  me  !  "  said  Hope. 

"  You  may  have  much  disappointment,  after  all,"  said  Mrs. 
Cope.  "  I  may  be  ill,  and  need  a  good  deal  from  you.  You 
may  be  in  the  midst  of  beautiful  things  and  have  to  forego 
them.  We  cannot  tell  an3*thing  that  may  happen  in  two 
years.  I  only  ask  you  to  share  my  chances,  and  to  help  me 
through." 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Cope,"  said  Hope,  earnestly  and  simply,  "  it 
•will  be  a  beautiful  thing  to  be  with  you.  And  if  I  can  help 
3Tou,  or  do  for  you,  —  I  hope  you.  will  always  be  sure  that 
nothing  can  really  disappoint  me  except  not  answering  in 
that.  I  should  not  dare  to  go  if  it  were  not  for  that.  It 
would  be  too  much  to  take.  —  Two  years  are  a  long  time. 
Can  you  and  Richard  spare  me  for  two  years,  Anstiss?" 

"  I  am  glad  to  have  something  that  I  also  can  do  for  Mrs. 
Cope,"  I  answered.  "  Only  it  is  not  my  doing.  I  could  have 
no  right  at  all  to  keep  yon.  I  can  only  give  you  up  most 
cheerfully  to  her.  And  Richard,  — you  know  how  he  gives." 

"I  think  it  is  an  ought,"  said  Hope,  with  tears  in  her  eyes 
that  were  like  sunshiny  rain.  "An  ought  and  a  may 
together." 

All  her  life  was. 

I  told  her  so.  "  Trouble  has  nothing  to  do  with  you, "  I 
said.  "  I  do  not  think  it  ever  came  to  you,  to  stay." 

"  It  may  have  brushed  by  me,  —  in  the  dark,"  said  Hope. 

"We  were  busy  after  that,  in  getting  her  ready. 

When  we  had  let  her  go,  we  .were,  for  almost  the  first  time, 
left  to  our  own  uninterrupted  life  together.  All  the  old  was 
gone  from  me,  as  I  said  before  ;  but  when  the  home  at  New 
Oxford  first  broke  up,  it  had  given  us  Hope ;  now  we  had 
quite  passed  over  into  what  had  never  really  begun  before  ; 
the  sole  thing  we  were  sure  of,  —  the  belonging,  utterly  and 
only,  to  each  other.  This  hardly  ever  befalls,  so  early,  with 
married  people.  The  change  comes  slowly,  to  most ;  it  takes 
years  of  gradual  happening ;  and  all  the  time,  ordinarily,  the 
new  life  is  enlarging,  replacing  the  old  before  it  drops  away. 
With  Richard  and  me,  there  had  been  so  little  to  change. 

Augusta  and  her  husband  travelled  that  summer,  as  usual ; 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  429 

they  were  at  the  sea-shore,  with  their  children  ;  they  went  to 
Lake  George  and  Saratoga ;  they  stayed  with  the  Allard 
Copes,  at  Edge  water,  on  the  Hudson. 

We  were  busy  ;  Richard  in  his  fields,  I  in  the  house,  and 
in  my  dairy,  with  Martha ;  our  story  went  on,  underneath, 
but  there  was  no  story  to  tell.  Why  should  there  be  a  story, 
when  we  were  old,  settled,  married  people ;  married  those 
nine  years,  nearly? 

The  only  person  who  saw  through  this  "  well  enough  "  of 
the  outward  was  Nurse  Crykc. 

We  went  over  there,  one  day. 

She  elbowed  me  aside,  up  into  a  corner,  when  Richard  was 
untying  the  horse. 

"  It  isn't  all  straight,"  she  said,  standing  at  right  angles,  to 
face  rne  with  her  exclusive  organ  of  expression.  "  You  and 
he  aint  old  enough  for  this."  She  lifted  up  the  shoulder  and 
the  flexed  arm,  slightly,  as  one  might  the  brows,  in  question- 
ing significance. 

"  I  only  told  you  he  was  part  Grandison,  you  know.  I 
told  you  you  couldn't  have  the  Lord  God  all  in  one  piece. 
But  you'd  better  make  much  of  the  piece  you've  got.  Some- 
how, the  spring's  gone  out  of  Richard  Hathaway.  He's  flatted 
down.  And  that  signifies  with  a  man,  more  than  it  does  with 
a  woman." 

She  sent  me  &w&y  with  this. 

I  knew  that  Richard  had  not  been  quite  well.  The  heats 
had  been  oppressive,  and  he  had  worked  hard.  He  never 
spared  himself.  And  lately,  he  had,  once  or  twice,  had  dys- 
pepsia; a  strange  thing,  for  such  pure  vigor  as  his.  I  did 
not  know  that  that  was  how  worry  begins  to  kill  a  man. 
Begins  a  long  way  off,  perhaps ;  it  has  to,  when  there  is  no 
weak  spot  nearer  the  life. 

Richard's  life,  splendid  as  his  physical  manhood  was,  was  a 
tender  thing  ;  a  thing  to  suffer,  like  a  woman's  ;  as  some 
women's  cannot  suffer.  Was  there  a  spring  deadened  ? 

A  fearful  shudder  ran  through  me  as  the  question  pressed 
home.  I  drew  nearer  him,  sitting  beside  him  in  the  low, 
roomy  old  chaise.  We  were  riding  through  the  wooded  road. 


430  HITHERTO  : 

"  Richard,  dear!     Are  you  quite  well?" 

How  his  face  lightened  as  he  turned  round  !  I  always  spoke 
kindly  to  Richard  ;  it  was  not  that ;  but  my  heart  went  out  in 
the  sudden  anxiousness  of  that  asking,  and  he  felt  it ;  he  who 
seemed,  ordinarily,  content  without  much  manifestation ;  to 
take  for  granted,  and  just  to  go  on. 

"  Why,  yes,  Nansie  !     Why  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  you  are !  Nurse  Cryke  doesn't  think 
you  look  well.  And  you're  all  I've  got  in  the  whole  world  !  " 

He  did  not  take  it  to  mean  so  much  as  it  did  ;  it  would  be 
hard  to  persuade  such  delicate  humbleness  as  his,  once  having 
turned  it  back  upon  itself. 

He  put  his  arm  about  me,  though ;  it  made  him  glad,  as  far 
as  it  went ;  and  he  was  pitiful  of  me. 

"  Poor  little  woman  !  "  he  said.  "  You  are  lonely.  But 
you  needn't  begin  to  borrow  trouble  about  me.  Nurse  Cryke 
had  better  keep  her  elbows  down.  I'm  well.  And  I  don't 
think  —  " 

There  was  a  wonderful  sweetness  in  his  voice,  but  he  did 
not  finish  what  he  had  begun  to  say. 


"  I  don't  think,  if  I  wasn't,  I  could  ever  give  up  and  go, 
while  you  wanted  me." 

This  was  what  came  up  in  his  heart,  and  what  he  had  begun 
to  say.  But  it  was  put  back. .  It  was  left  upon  the  Silent 
Side. 


A    STOUT  OF   YESTERDAYS.  431 


CHAPTER  XL. 

UNDERTOW. 

"  O  Mis'  HATH.IWAY  !  "  cried  Martha,  meeting  me  at  the- 
door.  "  There's  awful  news !  Jabez  has  been  in  to  New 
Oxford,  and.  he  see  the  Copes'  man  from  South  Side,  so  there 
aint  no  kind  o'  doubt  about  it,  I  don't  suppose.  I  declare 
I  don't  know  nothin'  how  to  tell  you,  or  what  you'll  say ! 
Come  into  the  settin'-room,  any  way,  and  lay  off  your  bonnet 
first,  and  take  it  comfortable.  "Well  —  there  !  it's  the  doom  o' 
livin',  and  we  can't  tell,  any  of  us,  when  our  end  will  be  !  " 

I  walked  into  the  sitting-room,  to  gain  the  time.  The  news 
was  almost  told.  Except  for  the  answer  to  the  fearful  question, 
"Who?" 

That  I  stood  still  to  ask  her,  though  I  trembled  from  head 
to  foot. 

"  Don't  touch  the  blinds,"  I  cried.  She  was  throwing  them 
open,  as  a  surgeon  might  do,  to  get  full  light  for  some  terrible 
operation. 

Martha  had  that  strange  relish  for  the  dreadful  which  is 
only  satisfied  with  the  last  detail,  and  with  watching  every  point 
of  its  effect.  "  All  the  particklers,  and  how  they  all  took  it," 
were  what  she  must  know,  if  such  a  thing  must  needs  hap- 
pen. 

I  pulled  my  bonnet-strings  away  from  her,  as  if  she  had 
been  a  hangm.an,  when  she  came  fumbling  at  my  throat  to 
loosen  them  and  make  me  ready,  to  the  last  point,  for  the 
stroke. 

"  I  can  hear  it  as  I  am,  Martha.     What  has  happened  ?  " 

I  thought  of  Hope.  Truly,  I  thought  of  her  first.  I 
thought  also  of  Grandon  Cope.  They  were  the  two  of  whom 


432  HITHERTO  : 

South  Side  news  —  ill  news  —  would  come  closest  and  most 
terrible. 

"  It  was  down  at  Cape  May.  They'd  gone  there  with  the 
other  Copes,  and  some  folks  from  New  York.  They  went  in 
bathing,  or  swimming,  or  something,  all  together ;  and  she 
went  too  far  —  " 

She! 

The  next  thing  I  knew  of  Martha,  she  had  got  sal  volatile 
at  my  nose,  and  my  hair  and  my  bonnet-strings  were  all  wet. 
She  had  tipped  me  back  in  the  great  rocking-chair,  and  put 
the  hearth-brush  under  the  rockers. 

"  For  gracious  sake,  Mis'  Hathaway  !  Do  come  to,  afore 
he  gets  in !  There,  —  as  true  as  I  live,  I  thought  you  was 
dead  gone ! " 

"  I  was  only  dizzy  for  a  minute ;  you  frightened  me  so. 
Tell  me  the  rest." 

"  I'm  a  blessed  saint  if  I  do.  "Why,  I  hadn't  begun !  I 
never  see  anybody  take  anything  so.  But  it  is  awful,  that's 
a  fact." 

"  Martha,  tell  me  every  word.  You  are  frightening  me  to 
death.  Was  it  Mrs.  Cope?  Mrs.  Grandon  Cope?" 

"  I  suppose  you  will  have  it,  now.  But  I  thought  you  could 
'abore  it  a  little  better.  Yes  ;  it  was  Mrs.  Graudon  Cope ; 
she  that  was  Augusta  Hare.  She's  always  had  things  hap- 
penin'  to  her  that  nobody  else  ever  did,  and  now  this  is  the 
cap-sheaf ! " 

"She  isn't  dead!" 

"  She's  gone,"  said  Martha,  solemnly.  "  The  first  thing 
they  knew  was  she  wasn't  there.  Something  sucked  her 
under,  —  some  kind  of  a  tide,  they  say.  Or  else,  it  might 
have  been  the  cramp." 

"  Let  me  up,  Martha  !  " 

She  took  the  hearth-brush  away,  and  let  the  chair  return  to 
its  natural  position. 

I  sat  still  a  minute,  with  my  face  in  my  hands. 

"Is  that  all?" 

I  thought  they  must  have  tried  to  save  her ;  I  thought  some 
one  else  misrht  have  — 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  433 

It  was  awful  enough ;  but  was  Martha  keeping  any  more 
horrors  back? 

"  Yes.  That's  all  they've  heerd  as  yet.  They  were  watch- 
ing for  the  body,  miles  along  all  down  the  shore.  They're 
in  hopes  the  tide  will  bring  it  in." 

"O  Richard!  Augusta  Cope  is  dead  !  Drowned  at  Cape 
May ! "  He  had  heard,  from  Jabez.  He  had  come  in  to 
me. 

I  burst  out  crying  then.     I  could  cry  for  Augusta.     I  think 
if  it  had  been  Hope,  or  Augusta's  husband,  — if  either  of  them 
had  gone  out  of  the  world,  —  I  should  have  bled  slowly,  at  my , 
heart. 

"  Poor  little  Nansie  !     You  have  a  great  deal  to  bear." 

Why  didn't  he  say  "  my  little  Nansie  !  "  as  he  used  to  do? 
He  had  left  that  off. 

Many  days  after,  Richard  took  me  over  to  South  Side. 

Grandon  Cope  had  come  back  with  his  wife's  body. 

There  in  the  pretty  garden-parlor  she  lay,  in  a  closed  cof- 
fin. 

Shut  away,  forever.     Bruised,  dead. 

On  the  black  velvet,  that  fell  to  the  floor  around  her,  lay 
flowers,  —  lilies,  pure  white  carnations,  tube-roses. 

I  went  in  alone. 

I  shut  the  door,  and  stood  in  the  silence.  That  was  what 
she  was  in  the  midst  of,  now.  Silence,  mystery.  A  great 
secret  hushed  with  her,  forever.  The  greatest,  thing  that 
ever  happened  to  her  was  the  thing  she  never  could  recount. 
It  was  the  strangest  to  me,  of  all.  That  which  she,  only,  had 
known  ;  that  which  she  could  never  utter. 

How  she  had  gone  down  ;  how  the  great,  stealthy  grasp  of 
the  mighty  undertow  had  taken  her ;  how  the  wild  sea  had 
surged  in  at  her  ears  when  she  went  under ;  what  she  had  seen 
in  her  soul  in  the  luminous  instants  of  going ;  how  the  two 
worlds  touched  ;  how  she  slept ;  how  she  waked.  Only  dumb- 
ness. 

She  was  sublime,  now;  sublime  as  the  stars  in  their 
silences. 

28 


434  HITHERTO  : 

There  were  words  said  for  her  ;  her  name  went  up  to  God  ; 
her  soul  stood  with  him  and  heard  it. 

Wife,  —  mother,  —  she  had  been  here  ;  they  prayed  for  her 
husband  and  her  little  children.  "What  was  her  new  name 
there  ? 

I  could  not  think  with  the  prayers.  I  could  only  think 
of  the  strangeness. 

That  she  should  not  come  back,  and  tell !  That  all  this 
could  bo,  and  she  be  so  grandly  quiet ! 

Was  she  changed,  or  was  she  the  same  self,  elsewhere? 
Were  they  gathering  round  her  above,  hearing  that  wonderful 
death-journey? 

Martha  said  the  same  thing,  in  blunter,  less  reverent 
fashion. 

"  I  can't  get  over  expectin'  her  to  come  in,  and  talk  it  all 
over.  It  seems  as  though  she  couldn't  do  nothin'  without 
tellin'  folks  how !  —  But  there  !  I .  dare  say,  —  if  'taint 
wicked  to  think  of  it,  —  it's  half  over  heaven  by  this  time  !  " 

Grandon  Cope  was  very  grave  and  calm.  The  shock,  the 
horror,  were  over  before  we  saw  him. 

How  much  ivas  over  for  him  !  The  life-experiment  tried 
and  ended.  Joy,  or  disappointment,  or  quiet  acquiescence  ; 
hopes  repressed  or  hopes  fulfilled  ;  pleasantness,  discipline  ;  all 
these  done  with ;  all  arrested  just  where  the}'  were,  with  the 
It  is  enough  !  that  onl}-  One  Breath  can  utter. 

He  came  over  to  the  Farm  ;  he  came  to  us  for  quiet  friend- 
ship. He  brought  his  little  boys,  and  led  them  out  into  the 
pleasant  fields.  He  was  very  tender  with  them. 

Richard  was  tender,  too,  with  the  motherless  ones.  He  took 
them  down  into  the  woods  and  out  upon  the  river.  We  all 
went,  in  the  boat,  up  into  the  shadows  and  stillness. 

We  talked  of  her ;  of  her  brightness  and  graciousness  ;  of 
her  smooth,  kind  way,  that  made  everybody  easy  with  her. 
There  are  always  beautiful  things  that  we  can  say  of  the 
dead. 

I  could  not  tell,  now,  what  had  been  wanting,  or  wrong  in, 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS. 

Augusta.  I  do  not  kn6w  of  any  positive  mischief,  or  flagrant 
selfishness,  that  she  had  ever  been  guilty  of;  and  there  was 
much  in  her  facile,  politic  ways,  her  infinite  social  tact,  that 
made  a  peace  and  a  sunniness  in  outward  things,  wherever 
she  was.  But  it  was  not  like  Hope  Devine's  sunniness. 
Augusta  smoothed  life,  —  in  the  little  circle  that  radiated  from 
herself;  Hope  infused  a  living  blessedness,  and  induced  new 
centres. 

Yet  I  wondered  if  "  blessed  are  the  peace-makers  "  might 
not  include,  in  its  broad  benison,  even  such  a  comfort-giving 
as  Augusta  Cope's. 

Grandon  Cope  told  us  he  should  take  his  boys  and  go  out 
to  Europe. 

His  mother's  health,  he  feared,  was  hardly  better.  They 
would  be  in  Florence  for  the  winter,  and  he  should  establish 
himself  near  them,  and  give  his  time  to  them  and  to  the 
teaching  of  his  sons.  He  would  be  likely  to  remain  abroad 
a  good  while.  In  a  }-ear  or  two,  the  boys  would  be  old 
enough  to  be  placed  at  the  Sillig  Instituted  Vevey,  which 
was  what  he  had  always  intended  for  them. 

"  I  must  do  all  I  can,"  he  said,  talking  with  me  in  the  little 
parlor,  the  day  that  he  had  brought  them  over  for  their  last 
visit  to  the  Farm.  They  were  out  everywhere,  as  usual,  with 
Richard. 

"  I  must  do  all  I  can  for  them.  If  they  cannot  have  the 
best  thing,  —  home,  —  they  shall  have  the  next  best,  —  a  large 
piece  of  the  full  world  to  gather  fruit  in.  They  shall  have 
art,  and  history,  and  language  off  the  trees ;  with  the  juice  in 
them  ;  not  boxed  up  and  dried.  One  cannot  be  uncheerful, 
or  unsatisfied,  Mrs.  Hathawa}7,  with  other  lives  to  reach  out 
through,  and  to  receive  with." 

"  I  count  you  happy,"  I  said,  gravely  and  earnestly. 
"  Rarely  happy,  Mr.  Cope." 

"  You  count  me  rarely  happy?  "  he  repeated. 

"  Yes  ;  I  do.  Your  way  is  so  clear  before  you,  —  the  thing 
you  ought  to  do  ;  and  you  are  so  strong  to  do  it,  alwaj-s.  And 
then  —  it  may  seem  a  strange  thing  to  say,  or  I  may  say  it 
strangely  —  but  to  have  come  to  the  end  —  the  earthly  end  — 


436 

even  of  a  tie,  an  affection,  safely ;  without  great  shipwreck  or 
mistake  ;  even  in  losing,  it  seems  to  me  that  is  a  joy.  We  do 
stumble  so ;  every  close  relation  is  such  a  responsibility ; 
such  a  possibility  of  fearful  negligence  or  wrong ;  we  may 
hurt  hearts  so,  and  hinder  souls !  It  frightens  me  to  live, 
sometimes." 

"  Do  you  think  I  feel  that  I  have  done  all  well?  That  I 
have  made  no  mistake  or  failure?  Do  you  suppose  it  has 
always  been  clear  before  me  ?  Do  you  suppose  that  memory 
is  clean  and  unaccusing,  now?" 

"  I  think  you  have  been  true  and  strong ;  that  is  all  men 
and  women  can  be.  I  think  she  is  safe,  and  that  you  can 
look  back  in  peace,  and  forward  in  gladness.  It  seems  to  me 
that  that  is  all  this  world  can  help  us  to.  The  Now  is  always 
mixed  and  clouded." 

"  Not  if  we  take  it  simply  as  the  '  now ; '  not  if  we  do 
not  ourselves  mix  it.  We  mix  it  with  our  have  beens,  or  our 
*  might  have  beens,  or  our  by  and  b}T.  God  means  it  simply 
for  now  ;  the  '  manna  of  to-day.' " 

"  I  cannot  separate  it ;  that  is  where  you  are  so  strong.  I 
cannot  tell  what  '  now '  is,  when  all  that  has  come  to  it,  and 
all  that  may  come  of  it,  is  taken  out.  I  cannot  even  take  it 
always  as  the  '  now  '  that  I  was  truly  meant  to  come  to.  IIow 
do  I  know?  I  have  made  it,  greatly,  for  myself;  for  others, 
too  ;  and  I  may  have  made  it  very  badly.  The  worst  '  might 
have  beens'  are  those  that  we  ourselves  have  thrust  aside,  or 
changed,  or  passed  unheeded." 

"God  knows  a  thousand  'might  have  beens'  where  we 
know  one  ;  he  can  look  at  them  all  patiently,  because  —  this 
is  the  blessedness  • —  he  knows  a  thousand  '  may  be's '  also  !* — 
Did  3rou  ever  think  what  his  thought  of  us  must  be  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  I  do  not  see  how  he  can  bear  to  think  of  us 
at  all." 

"  Yet  every  one  of  us  is  a  thought  of  his,  or  else  we 
should  not  be.  See  here  !  I  wonder  if  I  can  tell  you  ;  I 
wonder  if  I  can  tell  myself,  in  words,  what  it  has  seemed  like 
when  it  has  come  closest.  Did  you  go  and  look  at  those 
blind  ferns  ?  " 


A  STORY  OP   YESTERDAYS.  437 

"Yes." 

I  wondered  that  he  had  recollected. 

"I  think  of  those  because  they  are  such  wrapped-up 
thoughts  ;  that  is,  because  we  can  see  the  wrapping  so,  and 
we  can  watch  the  unfolding.  But  consider  how  far  back  the 
thought  begins  ;  with  the  little  seed  —  one  among  a  million  — 
under  the  tender  frond  ;  how  it  waits  in  that,  how  it  falls  with 
it,  —  for  not  one  of  these,  even,  can  fall  without  your  Father. 
How,  all  through  the  pregnant,  quickened  earth,  beside  every 
particle  of  its  dust,  nearly,  lies  something  that  has  life,  and 
that,  therefore,  God's  thought  must  lie  close  alongside  of 
and  within.  Think  that  whenever  a  little  blade  or  leaf  comes 
up,  it  comes  up  in  tender  evidence,  because  it  simply  could 
not  have  been  there  without  him.  Think  how  his  Word,  so, 
makes  all 'the  world,  and  has  gone  out  to  the  ends  of  the. 
earth.  Can  you  see?  Can  you  believe?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  answered.  "I  only  know  it  is  warm 
and  beautiful.  I  don't  know  how  much  I  do  believe  —  with 
my  heart." 

He  looked  in  my  eyes  earnestly.  I  think  he  knew  what  I 
meant.  I  think  he  saw  the  glow  that  came  from  somewhere, 
meeting  the  truth. 

He  went  on. 

"  Think  of  our  human  selves.  If  God  so  clothe  the  grass, 
doth  he  not  much  more  clothe  us  ?  "With  what  does  that 
mean?  Gowns,  coats?  They  stop  very  short  who  stop  there, 
in  the  reading.  That  which  grows  out  of  us  ;  whatever  we 
come  to  ;  the  shaping,  and  the  placing,  and  the  history  ;  that 
is  the  raiment  he  puts  upon  us,  to  see  us  by,  and  to  make  us 
see  each  other.  And  yet  —  the  life  is  more  —  the  body  is 
more  —  than  the  raiment.  There  is  more  within  and  beyond 
than  has  ever  come  forth.  More,  and  better  worth.  Close  to 
us,  close  to  what  there  is  of  any  one  of  us  already,  is  this 
thought  of  God,  which  is  his  presence,  his  touch ;  yet  far 
back,  touching  also  all  in  the  whole  world  that  has  had  to  do 
with  this  life,  this  consciousness  —  with  its  being  here  to-day, 
and  with  what  from  afar  off  and  away  back  has  worked  toward 
it,  and  tended  to  make  it  just  where  and  as  it  is,  reaches  his 


438  HITHERTO  : 

consciousness  for  it,  which  outruns  its  own ;  and  away  on,  to 
what  may  be,  through  all  possible  conditions,  forever.  To  say 
that  God  is  with  me,  that  he  knows  all  of  me,  is  to  make  him 
infinite  just  for  me.  And  so  he  is.  So  he  is  for  every  one. 
Each  soul  is  held  in  the  very  heart  of  his  almightiness,  as  if 
there  were  a  separate  almightiness  for  each.  If  there  had 
only  been  one  soul,  there  must  have  been  a  God  to  take  care 
of  it." 

I  felt  tears  go  down  my  cheeks.  I  could  not  say  a  word. 
It  was  rich  and  beautiful ;  warm  with  the  conception  of  God's 
love  and  nearness.  I  glowed  while  I  heard  it ;  but  —  did  I 
feel  God  so? 

I  had  come  to  this  close  analysis  ;  I  had  come  to  know  that 
I  might  stand  and  look  at  the  glory  ;  that  I  might  catch,  with 
joy,  a  reflected  ray ;  that  my  heart  might  burn  in  me,  to  walk 
ever  so  little  way  beside  a  life  that  held  itself  so  beside  the 
Highest ;  yet  that  straight  down  into  my  own  consciousness 
the  life  and  the  glory  might  never  have  come. 

I  could  think  of  the  great,  warm  earth,  turning  in  the  sun- 
flood  ;  I  could  think  of  little  hidden  herbs  and  grasses,  and 
glorious  wilderness  flowers,  each  touched  with  that  living 
thought  that  was  a  meaning  and  a  creation  ;  I  could  think  of 
little  birds  in  the  forest  depths,  with  a  Presence  about  them 
more  brooding  than  the  mother-wing.  I  could  conceive, 
gladly,  that  wherever  a  life  was,  there  was  the  instant  Giver. 
I  could  so  put  God  into  the  world,  or  the  world  into  him,  — 
as  if  I  were  a  thought  outside  the  world  and  him.  I  could 
think  of  souls  of  men  held  deep  in  his  infinity  ;  I  could  think 
of  myself  there  —  and  yet  not  be  there.  In  the  very  present 
life  beating  in  me,  could  I  feelhis  heart-beat?  Could  I  sa}r, 
"  Now  thou  quickenest  me  ;  now  thou  art  with  me,  and  I  with 
thee  ;  the  glory  of  thy  Face  is  upon  me  "  ? 

"lean  hear  all  his  word,"  I  said  to  Grandon  Cope.  "  I 
know  it  when  I  hear  it ;  but  I  think  it  is  spoken  above  me, 
among  the  angels.  It  does  not  call  me  by  my  name  ;  I  believe 
that  my  life  is  in  him,  as  you  say  ;  but  it  is  as  one  in  a  reverie, 
thinking  of  the  place  he  stands  in,  forgetting  that  he  is  bod- 
ily there.  The  very  thinking  puts  me  outside.  If  I  could 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS. 

wake  out  of  the  dream, — if  I  could  leave  off  thinking  and 
just  say,  Here  am  I !  and  find  him  round  me.  How  can  I  find 
him  ?  How  can  I  come  close,  and  know  ? " 

"  At  the  feet  of  his  Christ." 

The  man  of  thought,  of  power,  of  insight,  said  this.  The 
man  of  science  had  but  this  simple  answer  for  me. 

"  Christ,  also,  is  in  the  unseen  heaven." 

"  He  walked  the  earth.  His  life  is  in  it.  The  Past  is  Now. 
He  answers  you  and  me  in  every  word  he  spoke  to  those  Hebrew 
men  and  women.  We  have  the  commandment  and  the  gift. 
He  is  the  same  yesterday,  to-da}*,  and  forever  ;  and  he  opens 
the  kingdom  of  heaven  to  all  believers.  But  we  must  begin  at 
the  beginning  ;  we  must  come  in  at  the  door  ;  we  must  not  climb 
up  some  other  wajr.  And  the  beginning  is  —  Do  the  will. 
Then  my  Father  will  come,  and  I  will  come.  Do  not  trouble 
about  finding.  You  shall  be  found." 

I  asked  him  no  more  questions. 

He  sat  a  little  while,  silently,  and  then  got  up  to  go.  I 
rose  to  say  good-by. 

It  was  to  be  good-by.  He  would  hardly  come  again.  He 
was  to  go  to  New  York  next  week. 

He  took  from  his  pocket  a  little  parcel,  tied  in  white  paper 
with  a  silken  string. 

"  This  is  for  you,"  he  said.  "  It  was  Augusta's  ;  and  I 
desire  for  you,  as  I  did  for  her,  that  the  sign  of  it  may  be 
fulfilled  in  3^011.  I  leave  it  for  you  to  read,  for  I  know  you 
have  the  alphabet.  And  now,  good-by." 

He  did  not  ask  me  if  I  would  accept  the  gift.  He  did  not 
put  it  as  a  gift  from  himself.  It  was  something  that  had  been 
Augusta's.  He  just  laid  it  down  upon  the  table,  and  turned 
and  took  my  hand.  He  held  it  firmly,  warmly,  with  the  long 
grasp  of  a  friend ;  then  suddenty  he  let  it  go. 

Between  us  were  a  few  steps, —  the  length  of  the  room,  —  then 
he  was  gone  out  of  the  house. 

The  distance  had  begun  ;  the  distance  that  was  to  be  meas- 
ured between  us  over  land  and  sea.  The  minutes  had  begun 
that  were  to  be  counted  between  these  last  words  and  any  we 
might  ever  speak  again.  The  minutes  that  were  to  roll  them- 


44:0  HITHERTO : 

selves  into  hours  and  days  and  weeks  and  months  and  3rears ; 
and  fill  themselves  with  life, — working,  separating,  chang- 
ing, —  between  us  two. 

My  friend  !     My  friend  ! 

He  walked  down  the  drive-way.  I  saw  him  standing  by 
the  garden-fence  with  Richard.  I  saw  the  two  men  take  each 
other  by  the  hand,  and  hold  each  other  so,  by  the  length  of 
their  straightening  arms,  as  they  moved  and  parted.  I  saw 
each  lift  his  hat  as  he  turned  away. 

There  was  thorough,  warm  respect  between  those  two. 

A  strange  thrill  of  pride  in  them  both  —  my  husband  and 
my  friend  —  came  up  in  me  as  I  looked.  'jfrien  I  took  the 
little  white  parcel  from  the  table  and  went  away,  hastily, 
into  my  room  with  it. 

I  shut  myself  in,  and  sat  down,  and  untied  the  string. 

I  held  upon  my  lap  a  narrow,  oblong,  blue  velvet  case.  I 
touched  the  spring  and  let  the  lid  fall  back.  Inside,  upon 
pure  white  satin,  lay  the  exquisite  bracelet,  —  the  most  beauti- 
ful one  I  had  seen  Augusta  wear,  —  of  flexile,  delicately- 
linked  Etruscan  gold  ;  its  chains  fastened  with  "  a  knop  and 
a  flower,  a  knop  and  a  flower,"  in  tiniest,  most  shadowy-fine 
fretwork ;  its  clasp  a  single  turquoise  of  great  size,  of  fairest, 
unflawed,  tender  blue.  The  gern  was  as  large  as  half  my  thumb  ; 
convex-oval ;  shaped  like  a  shell  lying  back  uppermost,  with 
a  ridge  along  its  middle.  It  was  like  a  little,  beautiful, 
heaped-up  wave.  Only  its  color  was*  like  the  sky. 

I  knew  about  it.  Augusta  was  proud  of  its  great  value. 
Grandon  had  bought  it  of  an  Alexandrian  Jew,  at  the  great 
fair  at  Leipsic.  There  was  hardly  another  like  it  in  the  world. 

"  I  knew  the  alphabet.  He  desired  its  sign  to  be  fulfilled 
in  me." 

The  perfect  gold  ;  deep,  rich-colored,  unalloyed. 

Ah,  but  this  gold  was  fretted  ;  tortured  with  workmanship. 
Its  delicate  links,  —  its  knops  and  its  flowers,  subtilely 
twisted,  —  how  had  they  been  drawn,  and  bent,  and  wrested, 
and  pained ! 

Was  that  why  the  gold  of  the  altar  must  be  made  holy  with 
"beaten  and  cunnin  work  "?  The  metal  that  could  uix'l 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  441 

endure,  —  was  that  the  type  of  soul-substance  God  loved  to 
deal  with,  —  out  of  which  he  shapes  his  cherubim? 

Only  the  purest  could  be  made  thus  beautiful.  That  is  the 
value  and  the  proof. 

Held,  and  clasped,  and  finished  with  the  stainless  blue. 

I  did  not  so  much  as  touch  it  with  one  of  my  fingers.  I 
shut  down  the  lid,  and  laid  it  away  from  me. 

Augusta  had  worn  it  complacently.  Could  not  people  read 
the  meanings  of  these  things  they  bind  upon  themselves  and 
placidly  appropriate?  The  fine-twined  linen,  and  the  blue,  and 
the  purple,  and  the  beaten  gold?  How  do  we  dare? 

I  do  not  know  how  my  thoughts  ran  on  then,  or  whether 
they  stood  still. 

All  at  once,  —  it  was  a  good  while  first,  —  something  said 
in  me,  or  I  said  in  myself  —  (in  these  silences  how  do  we 
know  who  speaks?)  :  — 

"  He  will  go  out  there.  —  He  will  go  out  and  marry  Hope  !  " 

I  felt  the  words.  I  heard  them,  plainly  in  myself.  I  could 
not  turn  away  from  that,  nor  from  the  pain-shot  that  went 
through  me  as  they  came.  I  knew  that  I  was  out  beyond  the 
breakers.  I  knew  the  undertow  had  all  but  got  me,  then. 

I  started  up  upon  my  feet.  I  stood  still,  as  it  were,  with  alt 
my  might. 

"  What  if  he  does!"     I  cried  out,  aloud,  defying  myself. 

I  lifted  my  foot,  and  struck  it  down  upon  the  floor,  as  if  I 
trampled  something  underneath.  . 

"  I  will  not  be  this  thing  !  " 

"  Shall  I  forfeit  my  soul  for  a  shred,  a  shadow  of  a  mere 
garment  that  my  life  might  have  put  on,  —  but  that  it  never 
did,  and  never  may?  Shall  I  grieve  and  spoil  a  better  soul 
than  mine? — Where  shall  I  get  help  to  take  this  out  of  me 
before  it  grows  ?  " 

"  At  the  feet  of  his  Christ." 

I  heard  that  too. 

I  went  down,  then,  upon  my  knees.  In  the  middle  of  the 
floor,  where  I  had  been  standing. 

I  felt  as  if  I  were  in  the  wide  pavement  of  the  temple.  I 
felt  as  if  He  sat  before  me.  I  felt  as  if  one,  but  a  little  worse 


442  HITHERTO: 

than  I,  had  gone  away,  leaving  the  place  empty  for  me  to 
come.  It  seemed  as  if  the  pity  had  not  yet  gone  out  of  His 
eyes. 

««  Christ,  I  come  to  thee  for  cleansing'!     Save  this  life  of 
me,  that  is  more  than  raiment ! " 


A    STORY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  443 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

SAVED  ;     YET 

THEY  were  out  on  Red  Hill. 

It  was  a  Sunday  afternoon  in  September. 

The  air  was  at  once  crisp  and  sweet.  Summer  sent  her 
slant  light  along  the  earth,  most  beautiful  as  she  slid  away, 
down  to  the  waiting  zones  below ;  as  the  waning  afternoon 
gives  back  a  level  glory  more  intimate  than  the  noontide 
splendor. 

They  had  been  to  church  in  the  morning.  After  dinner, 
Richard  had  slept.  Anstiss  found  him,  as  she  sometimes  did 
in  these  days,  lying  on  the  cool,  broad  sofa  in  the  open  hall. 
"  Resting  a  minute,"  he  would  say  when  she  asked  him.  But 
Richard  Hathaway  had  not  been  used  to  rest. 

She  went  and  made  some  cool  lemonade  to  give  him  when 
he  should  awake. 

"  It  did  him  good.  It  brightened  him  ;  that,  and  his  nap," 
she  said  to  herself,  as  she  took  away  the  glass  when  he  had 
drunk  it. 

It  was  her  thought  of  him  that  brightened  him.  She  had 
thought  so  much  of  him,  in  every  little  way,  lately.  She  had 
always  been  kind  and  dutiful ;  but  these  last  weeks  it  had 
been  more  as  he  was  used  to  think  for  her. 

"It  is  almost  as  if  her  very,  whole  heart  was  in  it,"  he  said 
to  himself.  "It  is  almost  as  if  I  were  enough  for  her." 

Anstiss  Hathaway  had  her  husband  to  win  over  again.  Not 
his  love  ;  that  never  changed.  But  she  had  to  persuade  him 
—  silently ;  by  living,  not  by  words  —  that  her  love,  wholly 
and  truly,  might  yet  be  his ;  that  these  years  of  their  mar- 
ried life  had  been  but  a  part  of  their  history,  —  the  history  of 


444:  HITHERTO : 

their  heart-growing  toward  each  other ;  that  their  beautiful, 
perfect  moment  was  yet  to  come. 

There  are  many  marriages  that  are  like  this  ;  many  in  which 
the  story  ends  darkly,  just  because  they  do  not  see  that  it  is 
only  telling,  not  all  told. 

"  Shall  we  go  to  walk,  Nansie?  " 

"Do  you  feel  like  it?" 

She  was  afraid  he  would  do  it  just  for  her. 

"  Yes.  Just  like  it.  I  should  like  to  go  over  to  Red 
Hill." 

"  That  is  a  ride." 

"  And  a  walk  after  the  ride.  Wouldn't  you  like  it  ?  It  is 
pleasant  weather  for  Red  Hill." 

"  If  you  think  you  are  quite  able." 

"  Of  course  I  am  able.  "What  a  funny  '  if  that  is,  Nan- 
sie ! " 

Some  people  are  "of  course"  always  able,  as  others  are 
equally,  of  course,  always  unable.  It  seems  to  be  so  set  down 
for  them  and  accepted  ;  and  it  takes  a  long  time  for  themselves 
or  for  others  to  change  the  attitude  or  the  impression,  —  of 
ability,  especially.  It  would  take  a  long  time  for  Richard 
Hathaway  to  come  to  considering  his  steps. 

So  they  were  out  on  Red  Hill. 

Anstiss  had  a  basket  full  of  mosses  and  lichens,  gathered 
as  they  came  up.  She  had  been  straying  about  here,  upon  the 
broad  hill-top,  picking  up  more. 

She  came  and  sat  down  by  Richard. 

It  was  on  the  self-same  flat  shelf  of  gray  stone,  with  the 
rest  below  for  their  feet,  looking  toward  the  great,  open  west 
filling  with  glory,  where  they  had  sat  ten  years  before  ;  when 
she  had  told  him  "  never  to  rnind ;  they  would  just  have  a 
good  time." 

Was  that  what  she  had  come  to,  with  the  hard,  restless  life- 
question?  With  her  little  basket  of  mosses,  red,  gray,  pearly 
and  green,  and  that  pleased  face  ?  Was  she  just  making  the 
best  of  it,  at  last? 

"  She  looks  almost  like  a  happy  woman.  She  is  trying  to 
be.  Poor  Nansie  !  It  is  like  when  she  was  a  little  girl,  with 


A    STORY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  .  445 

her  little,  pale,  ^hin  face,  and  her  short,  stiff  hair,  that  Miss 
Chisrn  would  keep  cut,  —  tying  on  wreaths  of  shavings  down 
in  the  shop,  and  -wearing  them  for  curls.  She  is  trying  to 
make  it  do.  Brave  little  Nansie  !  What  a  woman  she  would 
have  been  if  it  had  done  ! 

"  She  has  tried  before.  I've  seen  it.  And  it's  been  no  use. 
It'll  be  no  use  again,  perhaps.  I  don't  count  it  for  n^self,  any 
of  it,  —  only  the  goodness.  I  thank  her  for  that  in  nry  very 
heart.  I  shall  tell  her  so,  when  I. get  where  I  can  tell  things. 
If  I  went  first,  perhaps  I  could  say  it  to  her,  in  still  times, 
when  she  is  happy,  and  out  of  her  happiness  sends  back  some 
pitiful,  tender  thought  to  me.  Perhaps  I  could  do  for  her 
then.  Perhaps  I  could  make  things  come,  —  some  of  them, 
—  as  they  ought  to  come  for  her.  Maybe  that's  what  I'm  put 
alongside  of  her  now  for ;  to  love  her,  and  to  find  out. 

"  I  think  I  shall  go  first.  I  think  I  ought  to.  I  think  that's 
the  way  it's  meant,  most  likely.  It's  all  planned  out,  better 
than  I  could  plan  it.  And  then  it'll  be  forgiven  me,  maybe, 
that  I  tied  her  to  me  so,  here,  for  a  while." 

Anstiss  was  laying  out  the  mosses  on  her  lap  ;  putting  the 
deep,  rich-colored  ones,  with  cups  and  spires,  alongside  the 
delicate,  misty,  pale-green  pieces,  and  against  these  again,  the 
full,  velvety,  emerald  mosses  proper  that  she  had  found  in  the 
low  woods.  Among  them,  and  overlapping  them  also,  she 
heaped,  as  she  came  to  them,  the  silvery  flaked  lichens,  such 
as  the  humming-bird  thatches  her  nest  with,  and  all  the  varied 
browns  that  one  hardly  believes  are,  until  one  searches  for 
them,  and  finds  how  curiously  and  untiringly  the  beauty  and 
the  manifoldness  are  put  even  into  these  simplest  growths,  — 
these  mere  gatherings  of  time  and  of  decay. 

It  was  a  pleased  face,  still  with  content,  that  she  bent  over 
these.  Not  such  a  face  as  had  searched  the  far  clouds  for 
their  colors  and  their  meanings,  that  night  ten  years  ago ;  yet 
it  looked  afar  also,  into  depths  of  tender  minuteness,  as  it 
held  itself  above  these  things  from  underfoot  that  were  tinted 
with  the  same  touches  that  wrote  the  word  in  lines  of  fire 
across  the  heavens. 

Near  things.     • 


446  .  HITHERTO  : 

That  was  what  she  was  thinking,  saying  to  herself.  Little, 
and  near,  and  eveiy-day  things.  The  meaning  is  in  these  also. 
And  the  gift  and  the  joy  as  well. 

Near  doing,  and  near  living,  and  near  loving,  —  these  life- 
particles  make  the  great  heaven,  as  the  little,  polarized  atoms 
of  light,  all  magnetized  one  way,  make  the  great  blue  in  which 
the  stars  burn  forever.  Each  point  is  intense  and  perfect  azure, 
even  if  it  were  alone.  Each  soul,  purely  poised,  is  a  heaven  ; 
and  they  all  are  "  the  bocty  of  heaven  in  his  clearness,"  where- 
in the  Throne  of  God  is  like  unto  a  sapphire,  "  above  the 
firmament  that  is  over  their  heads." 

She  was  willing,  at  last,  to  be  a  soul-particle ;  to  be  glad 
with  all  souls  in  the  joy  of  the  Lord. 

She  drew  closer  to  Richard's  side.  She  took  up  little  bash- 
ful, loving  ways  with  him,  as  if,  true-pointing  now  herself, 
she  felt,  like  the  needle  of  a  crystal,  the  true-pointing  that 
was  in  him,  and  that  set  them  closer,  side  by  side. 

These  ways  of  hers  were  like  a  beautiful  torment  to  him. 

"  If  it  could  only  really  be  !  "  he  thought.  "  If  she  did  not 
have  to  try  !  " 

He  looked  down  at  her,  putting  his  arm  about  her,  letting 
her  rest  so. 

There  came  a  bright  little  gleam  of  a  smile,  climbing  sud- 
denly up  into  her  face.  It  seemed  happy,  and  it  seemed 
amused. 

"What  is  it,  Nansie?"  he  asked,  as  he  looked  down  and 
met  it. 

"Zaccheus,  he 
Did  climb  a  tree," 

• 

she  answered,  out  of  the  Primer. 

"And,  you  see,  he  need  not  have  done  it.  That  is  what 
it  means,  I  think,  instead  of  altogether  to  praise  his  zeal. 
He  thought  he  must  climb  high,  to  see  the  Lord.  But  the 
first  thing  Jesus  says  to  him,  when  he  sees  him  there,  is  to 
call  him  down.  '  I  will  abide  in  thine  house,'  he  tells  him.  — 
I've  just  noticed  it,  as  Hope  says." 

"  You  are  growing  like  Hope,  somehow,"  said  Richard. 


A    STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  447 

"Am  I,  Richard?  Then  I  am  growing  fitter  to  be  your 
wife."  . 

Fitter  to  be  his  wife !  Why,  that  was  the  other  way ! 
Could  she  be  thinking  like  that?  She  looked  so  glad,  too, 
when  he  said  it.  He  could  see.  as  it  were,  a  quick  pulse  of 
joy  in  her  eyes.  The  blue  of  them  grew  deep,  as  if  color 
surged  up  into  them. 

"  Do  you  know,  Richard,  I  have  thought  a  good  many  times, 
that  Hope  ought  to  have  been  your  wife  ?  And  I  think,  —  not 
that  she  let  herself  tlnnk  of  it,  or  be  sorry ;  that  is  not  Hope's 
way,  — but  I  think  she  might  have  been,  naturally,  if  you  had 
asked  her  instead  of  me." 

"  I  did  ask  her,  Xansie." 

He  told  his  wife  this,  after  those  nine  years.  He  said  it 
almost  before  he  thought. 

"  Richard ! " 

"  She  was  too  true  to  me  to  take  me.  I  asked  her  when  I 
had  no  hope  of  you.  And  yet  — 

"  I  should  have  gone  on  loving  you  all  my  life." 

That  was  what  was  behind  the  yet ;  but  she  did  not  know 
it.  He  stopped  there.  Why,  this  was  strangely  like  love- 
making  again,  —  and  they,  old  married  people  !  How  came 
their  talk  to  run  of  this  fashion  ?  He  stopped  himself  at  that 
"yet"  like  a  lover  who  did  not  know  how  it  should  be  taken. 

She  wondered,  troublously,  what  had  been  behind  it.  She 
was  as  shy  to  ask  as  she  would  have  been  nine  years  ago. 
She  was  slowly  loving,  and  slowly  winning,  him  again,  as  if 
she  had  been  a  girl.  Slowly  finding  out,  that  is,  that  she 
could  "  love  much  ;  "  hoping  also  to  be  forgiven  much ;  slowly 
beguiling  him  to  believe. 

Is  it  a  strange  story  ? 

How  pretty  Anstiss  was  to-day !  Prettier  at  twentjMiine 
than  ever.  Something  like  the  changefulness  of  girlhood, 
trembling  and  flushing  with  half-formed  thoughts,  showed  it- 
self in  her  glance,  her  color. 

Some  sort  of  peace,  some  touch  of  wonderful  rest,  also,  had 
come  over  the  unrestful,  feverish  nature,  these  last  two 
months.  Richard  did  not  know.  Only  she  herself,  and  He  to 


448  HITHERTO  : 

whom  she  came,  in  her  struggle,  her  pain,  her  sin,  —  knew 
how  it  had  been.  He  had  put  forth  his  hand  and  lifted  her 
up,  and  the  fever  had  left  her,  and  she  rose  to  do  sweet  min- 
istering ;  to  earn  her  life  again. 

If  only  Richard  would  keep  well !  If  she  could  only  have 
time ! 

Was  it  but  two  months  ?  She  seemed  to  have  lived  so  long 
since  that  day  when  Grandon  Cope  came  there  and  bade  her 
good-by,  and  left  her  with  the  storm  in  her  heart.  So  much 
had  slid  back,  and  seemed  long  past  already  ;  because  she  had 
so  utterly  let  it  go.  So  much  had  hushed  itself  within  her, 
and  so  much  was  wakening,  as  into  a  sweet,  new  morning. 

"  I  will  take  this  life  that  Thou  hast  given  me,  and  I  will 
live  it  out  with  my  hand  in  Thine.  I  will  thank  Thee  for  it 
every  day.  I  will  trust  Thee  for  what  it  shall  come  to,  with 
both  of  us,  —  souls  just  begun,  as  we  are.  I  will  love  that  in 
him  that  Thou  art  making ;  I  will  trust  Thee,  gladlv,  for  what 
Thou  art  making  in  me.  Speak  Thy  word  unto  me  daily,  and 
keep  me  clean !  " 

It  was  with  a  prayer  like  this  God  saved  her. 

But  sometimes  a  terrible  dread  came  over  her,  —  a  fore- 
shadowing thrill.  Might  she  be  saved,  "  so  as  by  fire"? 

Might  Richard  go  hence,  into  the  glory ;  be  clothed,  sud- 
denly, with  his  great,  waiting  angelhood,  and  leave  all  this 
little  life  of  his,  with  its  love  and  its  pain,  behind  him? 
Leave  her,  in  her  unworthiness,  —  her  sin  unatoued?  Would 
God  deal  thus  with  her  ? 

She  could  not  bear  that.  She  could  nob  look  at  that 
thought  long. 

"  Forgive,  as  we  forgive  each  other,"  she  cried  ;  and  the 
plea  was  a  promise.  "  Undo  and  abate  all  that  can  be  un- 
done and  abated,  as  we  would  when  we  truly  forgive/' 

And  so  she  hoped  again. 

In  the  silence  between  these  two  the  depth  of  their  life  was 
flowing. 

They  got  up  to  go  down  the  hill  again. 

All  down  in  the  meadows  was  the  golden,  rolling  mist  of 
the  sunset.  •  The  tops  of  the  trees  moved  in  it,  and  the  clouds 


A    STORY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  449 

waited,  above,  tilll  the  level  glory  should  slide  down  over  the 
horizon,  and  its  shafts  slant  upward  to  make  them  splendid 
after  the  earth  was  dark. 

They  did  not  talk  much  on  the  way.  Anstiss  was  learning 
to  feel  her  husband's  soul  in  the  stillness.  She  was  not  rest- 
less for  words,  as  she  had  been.  But  Richard,  —  he  thought 
she  was  learning  to  do  without. 

They  had  got  almost  to  the  foot  of  the  hill,  to  where  the 
horse  waited,  when  Richard  suddenly  stopped,  leaning  up 
against  a  tree.  His  face  turned  pale,  so  that  it  shone  out  in 
the  gathering  dusk. 

Anstiss  sprang  to  his  side. 

He  could  not  speak,  at  first ;  he  only  smiled,  as  she  looked 
up  at  him  in  a  terror. 

"  It  is  only  a  dizziness,"  he  said  then,  the  color  coming 
back  partly,  and  he  moving  to  go  on.  "  I  have  it  sometimes. 
And  my  head  has  ached  to-day.  It  was  better  up  there  on 
the  hill." 

"  Richard  !  Richard  !  don't  let  it  ache  !  Don't  be  dizzy,  — 
don't  be  sick  !  You  were  always  well,  —  till  I  worried  you  !  " 

And  Anstiss  put  her  arms  up  over  his  shoulders,  and  burst 
out  crying. 

"  Why,  little  Nansie  !     Do  you  care  like  that?  " 

He  grew  strong,  then,  all  of  a  sudden,  as  he  had  grown  faint. 

He  put  her  into  the  chaise,  and  got  in  beside  her. 

"  We'll  go  home  and  get  some  tea.  We  shall  both  be  all 
right,  then." 

'  But  Richard  was  not  all  right  in  the  morning.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  could  not  get  up  and  dress.  His  head  was 
heavy  with  pain,  and  his  eyes  were  feverish  and  bloodshotten. 
His  limbs  all  ached.  There  was  a  strange  dreaminess  in  his 
brain.  Things  did  not  seem  real  to  him. 

Did  they  seem  real  to  his  wife  ? 

Real  as  the  day  of  judgment. 

"  It's  nothin'  more  than  I  expected,"  said  Martha  Gecldis. 
"  It's  ben  a  drasgin'  on  him  all  summer  lonsr.  Now  he's  sot 

CO  O  C? 

to  wrastle  it  out.     And  it's  which'll  beat,  fever  or  man.     You 
an'  I  has  got  our  hands  full,  Mis'  Hathaway." 
20 


450  HITHERTO  : 


CHAPTER  XLH. 

SO  AS   BY  FIRE. 

"  BE  not  deceived.  God  is  not  mocked.  Whatsoever  a 
man  soweth,  that  shall  he  also  reap." 

God  might  forgive,  but  I  must  suffer  it  out. 

Those  awful,  inexorable  words  stood  by  me  like  angels  of 
doom. 

Sometimes  he  knew  me  ;  sometimes  he  smiled.  Sometimes 
his  gaze  was  all  wide  and  wild.  Fever  had  him.  He  was  not 
my  Richard  any  more.  He  was  a  soul  in  the  deep,  lone 
struggle  with  death.  I  could  only  stand  by. 

I  could  not  say  my  heart  to  him  ;  not  any  of  it,  ever  again. 
I  could  only  give  drink  to  his  lips,  and  smooth  the  pillows 
for  his  dear  head,  and  sit  like  a  still,  cursed  thing,  through  the 
midnights,  bearing  my  sentence. 

"  He  found  no  place  for  repentance,  though  he  sought  it 
carefully,  with  tears."  Was  that  true?  Did  God  punish 
so? 

Where  was  the  Christ  who  had  forgiven  me?  I  could  not 
find  him,  then,  in  the  darkness.  I  was  all  alone  ;  and  there 
was  my  husband,  going  out  of  the  world ;  passed,  already, 
beyond  my  touch. 

We  kept  him  in  a  perfect  hush.  • 

If  he  were  dead,  I  could  have  cried  to  him.  I  could  have 
prayed  God  to  give  him  my  messages.  But  I  could  sa}^  no 
word  to  him  now,  lest  he  should  die  ;  lest  that  should  deter- 
mine what  I  believed  was  determined  already. 

If  he  were  gone,  he  would  come  back  to  me,  perhaps  ;  to  his 
poor  little,  suffering,  contrite  wife.  I  did  not  think  he  could 
stay  away,  even  in  heaven.  But  he  was  so  far  away,  now ! 
Tossing  on  that  great  deep  of  pain  ;  withdrawn  from  this  life  ; 


A    S'SOItY   OF   YESTERDAYS.  451 

not  taken  into  the  life  eternal.  1  almost  longed  for  the  clays 
and  nights  to  be  over ;  for  what  should  come,  to  come. 

I  could  not  say  one  word  to  God.  Was  that  because  my 
whole  soul  was  one  awful  agon}'  of  prayer?  It  just  lay  bare 
and  wretched  before  him.  What  would  he  do  with  it?  Would 
he  ever  send  one  word  of  peace  into  it  again?  Was  I  already 
in  the  outer  darkness  ? 

His  sister  came,  and  his  brother.  They  wanted  to  help  me. 
Everybody  wanted  to  help  me.  They  tried  to  make  me  go  to 
bed,  and  sleep.  They  said  I  was  doing  too  much  ;  that  I 
should  not  hold  out.  I  knew  I  should  have  to  hold  out ; 
that  souls  did  hold  out,  to  bear  all  their  punishment. 

I  heard  John  Hathaway  tell  the  doctor,  "  His  wife  is  giving 
up  her  life  for  him." 

They  thought  I  was  a  good,  self-sacrificing  wife.  Why,  I 
knew  that  I  had  killed  him  ! 

I  almost  laughed  when  I  heard  such  things.  If  I  had  laughed, 
I  should  have  gone  mad.  I  knew  how  near  I  came  to  it. 
But  God  kept  my  senses,  too ;  all  my  power  to  see  and  suf- 
fer it  through. 

Then,  after  days  and  nights,  it  began  to  grow  dead  and  old. 
I  knew  I  had  got  something  awful  laid  awaj',  to  look  at  and 
to  bear,  by  and  by.  But  I  had  borne  all  I  could,  just  now. 
I  went  on  with  a  kind  of  mechanical  persistence.  I  made 
gruels,  and  beef-tea ;  I  measured  cordials ;  I  dropped  medi- 
cines ;  I  sat  and  watched  at  night,  except  when  they  put  me 
down  on  the  sofa  in  his  room,  and  made  me  lie  there  for  an 
hour. 

I  kept  it  all  in  my  heart,  —  all  I  had  to  say  to  him,  and  that 
he  would  go  away  and  never  hear ;  I  should  have  it  to  keep 
for  years  and  years  and  j-ears,  perhaps,  till  God  would  let  me 
die  and  come  and  say  it  there.  I  thought  he  would  let  me  say 
it  there,  just  once  ;  let  me  speak  to  him  one  moment,  even  if 
he  sent  me  right  away  again,  forever.  I  thought  impiously 
and  fiercely,  that  I  would  say  it.  And  then  I  remembered 
how  easily  I  was  being  hindered  here.  Yes  ;  I  was  in  the 
mighty  Hand  of  the  Living  God.  I  could  writhe  and  cry  ;  but 
I  could  only  have  what  he  would  give  me. 


452  HITHERTO: 

There  came  a  night,  at  last,  when  he  lay,  —  oh,  so  still ! 
No  feverish  tossing,  no  wild  talk,  only  dead  prostration. 
The  fever  had  gone  ;  but  the  life  was  gone  with  it ;  wasted  and 
burnt  awajr.  I  saw  the  moment  when  the  doctor  gave  him  up. 
I  saw  it,  exulting.  Now  he  was  mine  again  for  the  little  that 
was  left. 

And  his  eyes  knew  me.     I  saw  that. 

I  would  have  him  all  to  m}'self  this  last  night.  I  would  say 
it  to  him  when  he  should  be  d3ring.  He  should  go  straight  to 
God  with  my  repentance  and  fny  prayer. 

I  told  them  that  I  would  have  it  so.  I  would  watch  alone  with 
Richard  to-night. 

They  argued  against  it ;  they  began  to.  I  hushed  them 
with  one  word. 

"  I  shall  die  if  }rou  do  not  let  me." 

I  said  it  very  quietly,  —  faintly.  For  the  life  was  almost 
going  out  of  me.  I  had  no  strength  for  dispute  ;  only  for  do- 
ing this  one  thing, 

"  I  believe  she  says  the  truth,"  said  the  doctor  ;  and  then 
they  gave  up. 

I  spoke  with  the  doctor  before  he  went  away :  — 

"Tell  me  one  thing.  Will  .anything  make  any  difference? 
Can  I  say  something  to  him,  if  he  can  hear?  " 

"  Anything  you  please,  Mrs.  Hathaway.  I  do  not  think  it 
can  hurt  him  now." 

No.  I  had  hurt  him  all  I  could.  Nothing  could  hurt  him 
now. 

Nobody  said  it  to  me  ;  it  came  ;  brought  to  my  remembrance. 
The  Spirit  of  God  said  it.  One  after  another,  things  joined 
themselves  together  and  came  into  my  mind. 

I  had  wanted  a  prophet ;  a  soul  to  love  me  that  could  see 
great  things  ;  a  soul  that  stood  nearer  to  the  Great  Wisdom 
than  L 

"Verily,  I  say  unto  you,  Among  them  that  are  born  of 
women  there  hath  not  arisen  a  greater  prophet  than  John  the 
Baptist ;  yet  he  who  is  least  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven  is 
greater  than  he." 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  453 

"The  kingdom  of  God  is  not  meat  and  drink  ;  but  right- 
eousness, and  peace,  and  joy  in  the  Holy  Ghost." 

"  He  who  shall  keep  the  least  of  these  my  commandments, 
and  teach  men  so." 

"  Let  them  see  your  good  works,  and  glorify  your  Father." 

"  And  these  are  the  works  of  the  flesh :  adultery ;  un- 
cleanness  ;  idolatry  ;  witchcraft." 

False  love  ;  false  worship  ;  false  spirituality.  * 

"  But  the  works  of  the  Spirit  are  these :  love,  joy,  peace, 
long-suffering,  gentleness,  meekness." 

Where  had  the  Spirit  been,  between  us  two? 

I  set  my  life  and  soul  alongside  his,  —  my  patient,  great- 
hearted husband's.  God  let  down  his  light  upon  them.  Which 
shone  forth  as  the  sun?  Which  stood  nearest? 

I  had  repented  before  of  that  which  the  devil  brought  me 
near  to  being ;  I  repented  now,  seeing  in  awful  clearness  that 
which  I  had  not  been. 

I  watched,  in  silence  ;  all  this  went  through  my  soul  while 
I  kept  count  of  the  time,  while  I  was  instant  to  the  second 
with  each  restorative,  the  teaspoonfuls  that  kept  life  in  him. 
Between  times,  I  slid  to  my  knees  before  the  great  white  easy- 
chair  beside  his  bed,  and  let  God  look  at  me  ;  to  see  if  there 
were  anything  amidst  this  evil  in  me  that  he  could  pity  and 
save. . 

I  would  not  break  his  quietness  ;  his  possible  rest ;  not  even 
for  that  only  thing  that  could  save  me  from  despair,  —  his 
word  of  forgiveness.  But  I  prayed  that  he  might  speak  to  me, 
some  time  in  the  long  hours  of  this  night ;  that  I  might  be  able 
to  say  that  to  him  which  I  thought  I  should  •  die  a  soul-death 
if  I  did  not  say. 

The  first  hours  after  midnight  had  been  his  most  unquiet 
ones,  hitherto ;  he  had  talked  and  wandered  most,  then.  I 
watched  for  these  to  see  how  it  would  be  to-night. 

The  old  clock  below  in  the  hall  gave  its  three-minute 
warning.  I  heard  it  through  the  heavy  stillness.  I  waited, 
as  if  for  an  axe  to  fall. 

The  single  stroke  came,  —  more  solemn  than  the  stroke  of 
midnight.  The  hours  had  begun  again. 


454  HITHERTO  : 

Richard  turned  his  head.  His  face  was  toward  me,  now. 
Only  the  thin  drapery  of  the  bed  between  us,  as  I  sat  there  in 
the  great  chair.  I  bent  down  close.  I  could  hear  him 
breathe. 

I  knew  he  was  awake.  Oh,  if  he  had  waked  calmly  !  If  he 
could  hear  !  If  he  could  only  be  with  me,  one  moment,  before 
he  went  away  ! 

I  heard*him  say  my  name  ;  low,  feebly,  in  a  whisper ;  like 
a  thought  of  me  ;  not  a  call. 

"  Nansie.     Nansie."  „ 

And  then  I  heard  him  whispering  to  God. 

"  Father  Almighty,  make  up  to  her  what  I  have  made  her 
lose !  And  make  me,  in  thy  heaven,  more  fit  to  love  her,  and 
be  with  her,  when  she  comes  !  " 

Then  I  cried  up  to  Him,  aloud. 

I  fell  down  there  beside  Richard,  my  husband,  whom  the 
heaven  must  not  shut  in  from  me.  I  stretched  my  arms  out 
over  him  to  keep  him.  I  felt  after  the  Power  that  raiseth  whom 
it  will.  I  clutched  for  the  hem  of  the  garment.  I  believed, 
mightily,  in  the  Christ  who  came  to  just  such  awful  needs. 

"  O  God  !  If  ever  a  life  was  raised  up  in  the  name  of  Jesus, 
give  me  back  my  husband  now.  For  I  do  love  him  so,  and  I 
do  so  repent !  Leave  me  not  to  live  without  him,  yet !  " 

His  hand  —  Richard's  —  came  over  gently,  till  it  found  my 
head. 

"  Nansie,  —  dear  little  Nansie  !  " 

We  had  prayed  ourselves  heart  to  heart.  Before  God,  in 
that  terrible  hour,  we  had  found  each  other. 

I  think  he  had  thought  that  he  must  die  for  me. 

But  his  love  was  so  great,  so  strong,  that  it  had  power 
even  to  live  for  me.  He  turned  in  that  moment,  and  came 
back  from  death.  The  life  in  him  heard  that  cry  of  mine, 
like  Lazarus  in  the  tomb ;  and,  bound  as  it  were  with  the 
very  grave-clothes,  it  came  forth. 

I  held  him  as  if  my  life  and  will  could  kindle  his.  I  knelt 
there,  with  nay  arms  over  him  ;  his  hand  upon  my  head,  until 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  455 

the  clock  struck  two.  Every  little  while,  came  that  loving 
whisper,  like  the  reaches  of  a  returning  tide. 

"  My  clear  little  Nansie  !  " 

He  called  me  his  again. 

Then  that  double  stroke  warned  me.  I  softly  loosed  my- 
self from  him  and  arose.  I  went  and  brought  the  cup  from 
which  I  fed  him.  More  than  the  hour  had  gone  by,  since  I 
had  done  it  last.  But  I  could  not  have  moved  before.  Not 
while  his  hand  lay  so  restfully  upon  my  head,  and  his  lips 
kept  breathing  "  Little  Nansie  !  "  If  there  were  good  in  any 
giving,  he  was  receiving  from  me  then. 

I  gave  him  the  one  spoonful,  now. 

"  More,"  he  said,  softly. 

Joy  sobbed  up  in  my  throat,  as  I  gave  him  two  and  three. 
His  will  was  with  my  praj^er.  He  was  resolving  to  get  well. 
God's  will  be  with  us  both ! 

When  the  daylight  came  in,  he  was  asleep,  his  hands  held 
fast  in  mine. 

Some  one  crept  softly  to  the  door,  and  looked  in  upon  us. 
It  was  Mary. 

I  shook  my  head  gently,  without  turning,  and  she  went 
away. 

He  slept  until  the  sunshine  was  broad  upon  the  entry  floor, 
shining  in  at  the  little  crack  of  the  just  open  door. 

I  kissed  him  when  he  woke,  and  gave  him  warm  beef-tea 
that  Mary  brought  me. 

Fifteen  minutes  after,  I  met  the  doctor  at  the  stairhead. 

"  He  is  alive.  He  has  spoken.  He  has  eaten.  He  has 
slept." 

And  then  I  fell  upon  the  good  old  man's  neck,  and  sobbed 
and  shook  with  all  that  night's  resisted  passion. 

Richard  got  well.  Because  he  could  not  go  and  leave  me  so. 
It  was  truly  the  love  that  is  stronger  than  death.  The  love 
that  can  come  back.  The  very  power  by  which  the  Lord  took 
up  his  life  again,  and  returned  unto  his  own. 

But  one  day  when  he  could  talk  more,  Richard  said  this  to 
me  ;  half  as  if  he  ought  not  to  have  been  persuaded :  — 


456  HITHERTO  : 

"  I  cannot  ever  —  I  never  have  —  given  you  the  best, 
Nansie.  Some  one  else  might  have.  I  took  you  covetously, 
I  am  afraid.  You  belong  higher.  I  know  that.  I  knew  it  when 
I  came  so  near,  —  when  I  saw  clearer  what  the  best  was." 

"  I  saw  clearer  too,  Richard.  I  saw  the  best ;  and  I  saw 
it  in  37ou.  But  the  real,  whole  best  is  in  God.  We  both  be- 
long higher.  It  is  by  the  life  we  touch  in  him,  that  we  find 
each  other.  That  is  the  counterpart  and  the  complement. 
There  is  one  Great,  Perfect  Marriage  ;  and  the  bride  is  the 
New  Jerusalem.  —  We  are  only  little  pieces,  Richard.  But 
we  are  little  pieces  that  belong  side  by  side." 


A   STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  457 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

INDIAN    SUMMER. 

THE  Indian  Summer  came  in  November ;  the  ripe,  warm 
days  when  all  the  air  was  like  rich,  fragrant  wine ;  when  the 
smoke  of  the  great  earth's  thankful  incense  went  up  in  the 
sunlight ;  when  after  the  hymn  and  the  prayer  of  the  joy  and 
toil  come  down  the  perfect  benediction  and  the  peace. 

I  went  out  every  day  with  Richard.  I  drove  him  long 
drives,  out  over  the  beautiful  country,  among  the  sunny  hills. 
I  walked  with  him  up  the  open  orchard,  and  along  the  slopes 
of  the  sweet,  resting  fields. 

One  day,  —  a  day  I  had  watched  and  waited  for,  —  we 
went  up  the  river  ;  floating  in  the  soft  haze  between  sky  and 
stream,  in  sun  and  shadow,  up  into  the  dream-land,  that  was 
more  a  beautiful  dream  than  ever. 

Richard  was  strong  enough  to  row  down.  We  took  a  boy  to 
row  us  up,  and  then  be  sent  back  across  the  fields.  I  wanted 
to  be  alone  with  my  husband  again  in  the  beaut}''  he  had 
brought  me  to  that  first  day  so  long  ago.  I  had  a  word  that 
I  must  say  to  him  there. 

The  river,  was  set  with  gems.  The  deep,  dark  water  was 
like  agate,  laid  between  heaped  and  clustered  stones.  Amber 
and  topaz  and  carbuncle  and  ruby  ;  fiery  gold  gleaming  here 
and  there  ;  the  dropped  leaves  lay  upon  the  banks,  and  floated, 
piled  upon  each  other,  in  the  still  curves.  It  had  been  a 
sweet,  lingering  autumn.  The  fierce  winds  had  not  come  yet ; 
nor  the  long,  sad  rains. 

Up  over  the  low-spread  splendor,  opened  the  wide,  soft 
sky.  Through  the  thinning  branches  of  the  trees  came  down 
the  last,  most  tender  kisses  of  the  sun.  But  the  deep  banks 
held  us  in  the  old,  beautiful  seclusion.  The  warmth  came 


458  HITHERTO  : 

down  for  us,  and  the  still  gorge  gathered  it  in,  and  held  it, 
a  river  above  a  river,  a  tide  of  glory  filling  it  up  to  the  brim. 
"We  seemed  to  breathe  the  sunlight.  The  life  we  drew  into  us 
was  golden.  It  was  the  mystic  elixir  men  had  tried  to  make, 
resolving  it  back  from  it»most  concrete  form. 

Richard  drank  great  breaths  of  it.  He  took  off  his  hat,  and 
let  the  sunshine  lie  among  his  hair.  He  looked  grand  and 
beautiful  to  me  with  his  bared  head,  blessing  coming  down 
upon  it.  He  bared  his  soul,  in  like  wise,  quietly ;  and  I 
knew  now  how  God's  light  found  it.  The  joy  was  there  ;  we 
were  both  in  it ;  it  was  enough. 

When  we  sent  the  boy  away,  and  lay  there  under  the  shelv- 
ing rock,  where  some  late-surviving  creeper  flung  its  embrace 
of  flame  over  the  cedar  branches  and  along  the  moss-warm 
stone,  it  seemed  almost  as  if  I  waked  there  out  of  a  long, 
dim  dream  that  had  lain  between  that  first  day  of  our  mar- 
riage and  this  that  we  were  keeping  now.  As  if  a  great 
Mercy  had  rolled  back  the  3'ears,  having  shown  me  what  they 
might  have  been,  and  set  me  again  at  their  fair  beginning. 

How  do  we  know  how  much  of  these  lives  we  live  is  just  a 
showing,  like  that?  It  feels  so  to  us,  often. 

I  had  a  word  to  say  to  Richard. 

"  We  must  be  married,"  I  had  said  to  him  that  day.  I  said 
that  to  the  man  I  had  stood  up  with  twenty-four  hours  before, 
solemnly  taking  him  for  my  wedded  husband  ;  with  whom  I 
had  gone  to  his  home  to  live  with  him.  And  he  had  said  to 
me,  simply  and  nobly,  —  what  I  must  now  say  to  him.  There 
had  been  all  these  years  between  the  two  sentences  of  our 
marriage  service. 

"  Some  great  thing  is  in  your  face,  Anstiss,"  said  Richard. 

I  know  there  was.  I  felt  it  crowding  to  my  cheeks  and 
eyes. 

"  Will  you  believe  it,  if  I  say  it?  " 

"  I  believe  yon,  always." 

"  What  do  yon  believe  me?  What  am  I  to  you,  Richard? 
Tell  me  truly." 

"My  dear  and  faithful  wife." 

"Is  that  all?     But  '  faithful'  is  a  great  word,  too.     Does 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  459 

it  hold  all  it  ought  to,  when  you  say  it  so?  What  is  faithful, 
Richard?" 

"It  is  good,  and  kind;  and,  —  yes,  I  do  believe,  —  con- 
tent." 

He  put  his  hand  upon  my  cheek,  lovingly,  as  he  might 
upon  a  child's  ;  stroking  it  down,  and  looking  into  my  eyes. 

Content !     That  was  all  I  had  made  him  believe  yet ! 

"Do  you  know  what  you  said  to  me  here,  nine  years 
ago?" 

"Troublesome  things,  didn't  I?"  he  asked  me,  smiling. 

He  would  not  come  back.  He  would  not  think  that  mo- 
ment could  be  for  him  again,  with  more  in  it ;  with  no  de- 
frauding. 

"You  said," — I  turned  my  face  to  him  with  eyes  bent 
down  and  glowing  cheeks,  glowing  with  the  word  of  the 
strong  man's  love  that  I  remembered,  — "  that  you  were 
'  married  to  me,  through  and  through,  every  thought  and  fibre 
of  you.'  Then  we  were  half  married.  Richard,  I  want  —  to 
say  my  half  to-day.  There  was  not  enough  of  me,  then,  to 
say,  or  to  know  it.  I  think  there  is  beginning  to  be  more, 
now.  And  I  can  say  it.  All  there  is  of  me  does,  just  so,  be- 
long to  you.  There  is  not  a  thought,  or  a  wish,  that  could  go 
aitywiiere  else.  Do  you  believe  me,  now?  " 

How  could  he  help  believing  me  ?  When  I  had  been  nine 
years  in  making  sure  ? 

Before  I  had  finished,  he  had  his  arms  about  me.  And 
when  he  held  me  back  again,  and  looked  in  my  face,  there 
Avcre  great,  honest,  happy  tears  standing  in  his  eyes. 

I  did  not  think  I  had  half  said  it,  after  all.  Half  answered 
this  large,  perfect  patience  ;  this  generous  love  that  had  been 
always  there,  waiting,  like  the  Lord's. 

I  had  not.  I  should  always  be  nine  years  behind  him.  I 
had  it  all  to  live,  —  to  prove  ;  the  chords,  between  which  lie 
the  harmonies,  are  struck  in  marriage  hours  ;'  the  full,  beauti- 
ful theme  is  played  out  in  the  years. 

Who  thinks  the  story  is  all  told  at  twenty  ?  Let  them  live 
on,  and  trv. 


460  HITHERTO: 

I  was  half  through  my  thirtieth  year,  and  Kichard  was 
eight  years  more,  and  we  had  just  come  to  this. 

The  Indian  Summer  had  just  touched  our  lives. 

For  God  gives  grace.  There  is  no  good  thing  —  not  even 
the  right  and  lawful  love  —  that  he  will  withhold,  if  we  do 
ask  him  with  a  true  and  sole  desire ;  not  having  a  secret 
mind  to  any  other.  He  may  give  it  through  fire  and  tears  as 
he  gave  me ;  yes,  even  the  fire  and  the  flood  ma}'  not  be 
stayed.  But  we  must  dare  ask,  even  for  that.  Dare  to  sa}r, 
"  Through  whatsoever  way  Thou  wilt ;  only  up  ;  up  into  per- 
fect purity  and  truth !  " 


A   STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS,  461 


CHAPTER    XLIV. 

FROM   OVER   THE    SEA. 

IT  was  one  day  that  winter,  that  Richard  came  home  from 
New  Oxford,  bringing  me  news. 

Richard  brought  news,  as  he  did  other  things ;  in  little 
parcels,  put  away  in  different  pockets  ;  to  be  brought  out  one 
bit  at  a  time. 

The  first  news  was  sorrowful ;  yet  only  what  we  had  for 
some  time  expected.  Mrs.  Cope  had  died  at  Florence. 

"  Now,  Mr.  Cope  will  come  home." 

"  Yes,  he  is  coming." 

"  Hope  will  be  back  again  !  " 

"  Has  Hope  written  you  anything  about  herself  lately?  Or 
her  plans  ?  " 

"  Hope?  Plans?  Why,  no.  What  plans  should  she  have? 
She  never  did  have  plans.  She  just  kept  on  doing,  and  let 
things  happen." 

u  Something  has  happened  to  Hope,  Nansie." 

"  Happened  !     O  Richard  !     Not  any  harm?  " 

"  No.  I  don't  think  so.  A  change.  It  seems  sudden, 
though,  hearing  of  it  all  at  once." 

I  could  not  think  what  he  meant.  Would  she  leave  Mr. 
Cope  ?  Would  she  not  come  home  ?  Had  she  joined  some 
other  people  who  had  come  to  know  her,  and  wanted  her,  per- 
haps? To  be  sure,  how  could  she  very  well  stay  with  Mr. 
Cope,  all  alone?  And  yet,  how  could  she  leave  hiin  alone? 

"  Why,  dear  little-woman,  you  are  all  abroad  !  "  said  Rich- 
ard, as  I  confusedly  asked  myself  and  him  these  questions. 
"  I  shall  have  to  break  it  to  you  —  as  people  do  break  things 
—  in  one  great  smash.  They  say  that  Hope  is  married." 

"  Married  !     O  Richard  !     So  soon  ! " 


462  HITHERTO: 

"  Soon,  you  blessed  child  !  What  do  you  call  soon  ?  Hope 
is  eight  and  twenty,  isn't  she  ?  How  long  would  you  have 
'her — or  somebody  else  that  she  is  saved  up  for —  wait?" 

"  Oh,  not  that!  But — Augusta.  It  is  only  a  few  months. 
I  could  not  think  —  " 

I  could  not  think  of  any  thing  but  one.  And  truly,  —  in  the 
midst  of  rny  bewildered  surprise,  I  inwardly  thanked  God  for 
that, —  I  thought  of  it  just  as  I  said. 

"Think  what?"  said  Richard.  "What  did  you  think,  or 
not  think?  —  Did  you  suppose  it  was  Mr.  Grandon  Cope?  " 

"  I  thought  he  and  Hope  would  marry —  some  time." 

Richard  laughed.  A  great,  glad  laugh  ;  it  was  not  only  as 
if  he  were  amused  at  me  ;  it  was  as  if  something  lifted  itself 
wholly  and  forever  off  his  heart,  at  that  moment,  when  I  spoke 
those  simple  words. 

"  Well,  they  won't,"  he  said.  "  At  least,  not  very  proba- 
bly. See  here." 

He  showed  me  a  New  York  newspaper,  that  he  had  got  in 
town.  He  folded  it  over,  and  pointed  to  the  list  of  arrivals 
by  the  steamship  Cambria,  from  Liverpool. 

There  were  ever  so  many  names  that  were  strange  to  me,  of 
course.  My  eye  ran  down  these,  hastily,  searching  for  short 
syllables  that  I  knew. 

"  H.  G.  Cope,  and  servant." 

That  was  all.     Then  came  strange  names  again. 

"  Alexander  Upfold.     Mrs.  Upfold  and  maid." 

I  let  the  paper  drop,  under  my  hands,  upon  my  lap.  It  told 
me  nothing. 

"  There's  a  letter,"  said  Richard,  in  his  dear,  provoking  way, 
touching  me  with  it  under  the  chin,  as  I  bent  down,  half  crying 
with  puzzle  and  impatience,  over  the  crushed-up  sheet.  "Per- 
haps that  will  tell.  M}r  news  is  only  hearsay." 

It  was  addressed  in  Hope's  own,  clear,  beautiful  hand. 

I  turned  right  over  to  the  end  of  it,  as  some  silly,  people 
turn  to  the  end  of  a  book. 

"  Hope  Upfold." 

The  letter  had  been  begun  in  Florence,  more  than  six  Aveeks 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  463 

ago.  It  told  me  the  first  news,  as  soon  as  she  had  known  it 
herself. 

"  It  just  came  to  me,"  she  wrote,  in  her  old,  quaint  fashion. 
"  I  had  it  before  I  knew.  But  there  was  a  beautiful  feeling  in 
the  world,  somehow,  before  that,  though  I  did  not  stop  to  see 
what  it  was.  I  have  been  very  busy,  you  know,  with  Mrs. 
Cope.  She  was  very  ill  at  Lago  Maggiore,  and  we  were  late 
in  coming  away.  He  found  us  there  again  ;  he  had  been  with 
us  in  Rome,  and  he  has  always  been  so  kind.  Everything  was 
always  pleasanter  when  he  came.  He  brought  things  to  us 
that  we  could  not  go  after.  It  seemed  to  me  all  Rome  came 
in  little  bits,  —  of  talk,  and  things  to  see  and  talk  and  learn 
about,  —  into  that  pleasant,  high,  balconied  room,  out  of  which 
Mrs.  Cope  could  so  seldom  go,  and  where  I  could  not  often 
leave  her  alone.  When  there  was  only  Mr.  Cope,  he  could 
not  do  so  much  for  me,  because  we  could  not  both  be  away. 
But  when  Mr.  Upfold  came,  he  seemed  to  make  everything 
easy.  He  would  have  a  book,  or  a  picture,  or  fresh  news,  or 
fruit  and  flowers  to  bring  in  to  her,  and  make  her  cheerful  with, 
and  to  brighten  up  Mr.  Cope.  So  then  she  would  spare  me. 
And  he  took  me  about.  He  said  he  wanted  to  see  what  I 
should  '  notice '  in  Rome.  He  picked  up  that  little  word  of 
mine,  and  made  so  much  of  it !  I  hardly  ever  dare  to  say  it 
now. 

"  Do  you  know,  he  never  forgot  the  little  talk  we  had  that 
night  at  Mrs.  Holgate's,  all  those  years  ago?  He  $a.ys  I 
planted  something  in  him  then,  and  took  possession,  as  people 
do  with  land,  to  claim  it ;  and  that  the  something  has  been 
growing  ever  since.  I  can't  tell  how  that  may  be,  but  a  great 
deal  lias  been  planted  some  time  ! 

"  You  would  like  Mr.  Upfold,  Anstiss. 

"  How  strange  it  is,  if  I  did  take  possession  then,  that  we 
have  both  come  half  round  the  world  to  find  each  other,  and 
to  find  out  about  it,  now  ! 

"  I  don't  think  he  could  have  really  known,  any  more  than  I 
did.  It  makes  me  think  of  the  man  that  '  planted  seed  in  a 
field,  and  slept  and  rose,  night  and  day,  and  the  seed  came  up 


464  HITHERTO  : 

and  grew,  he  knew  not  how.'  We  do  not  ever  kno\t  what  is 
growing  for  us,  do  we? 

"  I  do  not  know  what  we  should  have  done  at  Lago  Maggiore, 
if  it  had  not  been  for  him.  That  was  before  Mr.  Grandon 
Cope  came,  you  know.  And  then,  when  we  came  on  to 
Florence,  he  came  with  us,  and  all  the  old  pleasantness  began 
again.  And  so  —  the  other  day  only  —  he  told  me  this  that  I 
have  been  telling  you.  —  and  all  the  rest  of  it. 

"  It  has  come  to  me,  — just  given.  And  now  I  do  not  see 
how  I  could  have  gone  on  with  the  rest  of  my  life  if  it  had 
not  come. 

"  I  am  very  happy,  Anstiss."  . 

The  letter  broke  off  here,  and  was  not  sent.  Mrs.  Cope  was 
ill  again,  fearfully  ill ;  and  then  Mr.  Cope  broke  down.  Gran- 
don was  there  then  ;  but  Alexander  Upfold  stood  by  them  all, 
with  his  love  and  help,  all  through  the  hard,  sad  time ;  till 
the  end  came ;  till  the  last  faithful  ministering  was  given,  and 
the  dear  friend  was  laid  at  rest. 

She  was  buried  there,  at  Florence.  It  was  her  own  wish. 
She  knew  that  if  she  did  not  ask  this,  they  would  bring  her 
home ;  and  she  knew  that  this  would  be  such  a  terrible  dut3^. 

"Think  of  me  here,"  she  said,  "  resting  among  the  beauty. 
Let  me  lie  down  where  the  peace  comes  upon  me,  and  think 
of  me  so.  It  will  be  better." 

So  they  did  as  she  said ;  and  then  Hope  was  alone  with  Mr. 
Cope ;  except  for  Grandon,  who  had  his  little  sons  to  hinder 
his  perfect  freedom.  He  came  with  them  as  far  as  England 
on  their  return,  and  there  Hope  and  Mr.  Upfold  were  married. 
Hope  sent  her  letter,  filled  up  with  all  its  sad  and  sweet  com- 
pletion, by  the  steamer  just  before  the  one  in  which  they  sailed. 
It  only  got  to  me  as  she  arrived  in  New  York. 

We  talked  about  it  as  people  do  talk  of  things.  Over  and 
over ;  trying  to  take  hold  of  it  closer,  by  every  little  corner 
of  circumstance. 

We  talked  of  Hope's  new  name.     We  could  not,  somehow 


A    STORY  OF    YESTERDAYS.  465 

bear  to  give  up  the  old,  beautiful  one  that  she  was  sent  into 
the  world  to  live. 

Yet  "Hope  Upfold"  sounded  to  me  full  and  sweet  and 
noble,  too.  Lifted  and  cherished ;  clothed  also  with  new 
lifting  and  cherishing  power  for  others.  Yes ;  Hope  Upfold 
also  was  a  beautiful  name. 

"  It  never  could  have  been  that  other  man,  you  see,"  said 
Martha  Geddis.  "  It  stands  to  reason.  Hope  Cope  !  Who 
ever  went  and  rhymed  themselves  up  after  that  fashion,  I 
should  like  to  know?  I  alwers  knew  it  wouldn't  be,  for  all 
folks  said,  —  and  they  did  say  things  when  he  went  out  to 
Europe  after  his  folks,  and  she  there  with  'em.  I  alwers 
knew  it  never'd  do,  after  I  put  them  two  names  together  in  my 
own  mind,  and  took  just  one  single  squinny  at  'em." 

"  Marriages  are  made  in  heaven,"  said  Nurse  Cryke.  "  But 
folks  don't  half  see  what  that  means,  either.  The  Lord  takes 
'em  in  hand  ;  and  he  works  slow.  He  don't  make  a  marriage, 
any  more  than  he  made  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  right  off, 
slap,  in  one  day.  He  takes  two  people,  and  he  marries  'em  all 
along.  Sometimes  they're  a  good  deal  married,  in  the  very 
beginning  ;  and  sometimes  it's  years  first ;  and  sometimes  he 
don't  get  through  with  'em  as  long  as  they  both  live.  And 
yet  folks  expect  it  all  at  once,  and  just  to  sit  down  and  enjoy 
it  —  here.  And  they  make  themselves  miserable  if  they 
think  there's  anything  better  in  this  great  grab-bag  of  a  world 
that  they  might  have  lit  on,  and  didn't !  As  if  they  were 
bound  to  get  the  very  best,  or  else  they  hadn't  made  ouk 
They  needn't  worry  nor  pucker ;  the  making  out  is  farther 
on."  And  Nurse  Cryke's  elbow  elevated  itself  with  a  right- 
angled  rush  as  if  it  were  an  inspired  guideboard,  set  direct 
to  the  exact  point  in  the  Far-off  where  the  making  out  would 
be. 

Hope  saw  much,  and  I  told  her  something  more,  of  how  it 
had  been  with  me  ;  how  it  was  with  us  now,  in  our  home. 

"  And  yet,"  I  said  to  her,  talking  one  day  of  these  things, 
".I  can't  understand  it  for  everybody,  Hope.  Not  even  ac- 
cording to  Nurse  Cryke's  doctrine.  There  would  have  been 
30 


466 

no  excuse  for  me.  But  there  are  lives,  —  there  are  marriages, 
—  we  see  them  sometimes,  — where  there  is  nothing  to  cling 
to ;  where  it  is  all  terrible  loss  and  mistake  and  wretchedness, 
all  the  way  through.  It  is  still  the  problem  of  the  world. 
When  a  soul  is  tied  to  some  mere  brutish  thing,  in  the  shape 
of  man  or  woman,  —  what  then?  " 

uThen,"  said  Hope,  "  this  living  is  only  a  little  piece,  after 
all.  Then  one  can  bear  ;  for  the  sake  of  a  Love  that  bore  all 
terrible  contradiction  of  sin  against  itself;  for  the  sake  of 
what  that  Love  sees,  and  bears  with  by  us ;  for  that  for  which 
also  even  the  meanest  one  is  "  apprehended  of  Christ  Jesus." 
For  the  By  and  B}'.  —  I  saw  in  Rome,  once,  Anstiss,  an  old 
coin,  —  a  silver  denarius,  — all  coated  and  crusted  with  green 
and  purple  rust.  I  called  it  rust ;  but  Aleck  told  me  it  was 
copper ;  the  alloy  thrown  out  from  the  silver,  until  there  was 
none  left.  Within,  it  was  all  pure.  It  takes  ages  to  do  it ; 
but  it  does  get  done.  Souls  are  like  that,  Anstiss.  Some- 
thing moves  in  them,  slowly,  till  the  debasement  is  all  thrown 
out.  Some  time,  the  very  tarnish  shall  be  taken  off." 

Hope  was  Hope  Devine  still ;  she  could  still  "  see." 


A    STORY  OF   YESTERDAYS.  467 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

TO-DAY. 

IT  was  a  year  and  a  half  after  this,  that  our  little  girl  was 
born. 

In  the  full,  bright  summer-tide. 

I  had  the  pain  and  the  peace  again.  But  the  pain  was  a 
joy. 

All  pain  is  gain,  I  said  ; 

God,  —  he  hath  helped  me. 

There  were  rhythm  and  rhyme  measuring  and  uttering  them- 
selves in  my  heart,  and  this  was  the  refrain  they  came  to. 

And  the  peace  was  like  the  peace  of  heaven. 

One  beautiful  night,  with  the  little  daughter  at  my  side,  in 
the  stillness. 

Then  there  came  a  day  of  fear ;  to  show  us  how  great  our 
joy  was. 

We  almost  lost  her :  she  almost  went  back  into  heaven. 

Nurse  Cryke  sat  with  her  on  her  lap  in  the  window.  Richard 
was  by  my  bed. 

"  Mr.  Hathaway  !     Look  here  !  " 

What  a  strange  voice  she  spoke  in !  I  shall  never  forget 
how  it  sounded. 

I  was  up  on  my  arm  with  the  instant  impulse. 

"  Mis'  Hathaway  !  You  lay  right  down  !  "  And  she  thrust 
out  her  elbow  at  me  ;  then  lifting  it,  she  beckoned  Richard 
nearer. 

I  saw  her  point  to  the  baby's  face.  She  whispered  ;  but  I 
heard  what  she  said. 

"  Blue  spazzum  !     Get  me  some  brandy ! " 

"  Nurse  !  "  I  cried.  "  Tell  me  what  it  is.  I  can't  be  quiet 
unless  you  do." 


4G8  HITHERTO: 

"  Well,  it  aint  much,  I  guess  ;  only  it  oughter  to  be  seen  to. 
A  kind  of  a  ketch  in  her  breath,  or  her  cirkleation,  or  some- 
thing. You  keep  still,  or  less  we  shall  have  you  to  look 
after." 

Richard  came  back  with  the  brandy.  He  mixed  a  few 
drops  in  water,  as  Mrs.  Cryke  told  him,  and  she  gave  it  to  the 
child. 

"  It's  fetched  back  the  color  a  little.  I  guess  she'll  do. 
But  I  tell  you  I  was  scared  !  I  didn't  know  —  I  don't  know 
certain  yet  —  but  what  —  " 

She  whispered  again,  and  again  my  sharpened  senses  caught 
it. 

"  She  might  be  a  blue  baby.     And  they  don't  live." 

"  Mrs.  Cryke,  I  hear  every  word.  I  should  hear  you  think 
now.  You  must  tell  me  every  single  thing.  Richard,  come 
here.  Is  she  really  better  ?  " 

"  She  looks  better.  The  doctor  is  coming,  now.  Don't  be 
frightened,  Nansie.  That  would  be  worst  of  all,  for  all  of 
us." 

"  No.  I  won't  be  frightened.  I  will  keep  just  as  still ! 
Only,  you  must  tell  me  everything.  I  always  know  things, 
Richard.  I  shall  know  worse  than  you  do,  if  you  let  me 
alone." 

"  I've  no  doubt  of  that,  you  bad  little  woman,"  said  Richard. 
But  he  was  pale,  too.  The  good  Richard  !  Oh,  I  knew  God 
would  not  take  back  his  little  daughter  from  him,  now ! 

The  doctor  looked  grave.  He  could  not  tell,  he  said.  These 
were  obscure  things  ;  it  was  what  we  could  not  touch ;  we 
could  only  be  very  careful,  and  wait. 

The  brandy  was  right,  he  told  Nurse  Cryke.  It  might  have 
saved  her  life.  Some  stimulus,  to  give  nature  a  start.  Nature 
had  the  thing  to  do,  if  it  were  done. 

And  then  presently,  he  sat  down  and  told  Richard  how  it 
was.  I  would  not  let  them  go  away  into  another  room.  I 
would  hear  it  all. 

It  was  a  little  valve,  between  two  parts  of  the  heart,  that 
ought  to  close,  perfectly,  at  birth.  Sometimes  it  did  not,  at 


A   STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  469 

once.     Sometimes    it    never   did.     And    that   was   a   "blue 
baby." 

Nothing  we  could  reach. 

0  little  heart !      Just  begun  to  play !      Play  rightly ;    fill 
perfectly  with  dear  life  !     What  should  we  do,  Richard  and  I, 
if  the  little  valve  would  not  shut?     If  the  tiny,  awful  mech- 
anism failed,  and  stopped ! 

"  Hold  her  so,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Do  not  change  her 
position.  Do  not  let  her  be  turned  upon  her  side.  Watch 
her ;  and  if  the  paleness  comes,  give  her  the  brandy." 

He  put  a  pillow  in  the  nurse's  lap  and  she  rested  the  baby 
upon  it. 

We  kept  her  on  that  pillow  all  the  day ;  all  the  night. 
When  bedtime  came,  Richard  made  Mrs.  Cryke  go  to  rest. 
She  put  the  pillow  on  the  bed  beside  me.  I  asked  to  have  it. 
I  told  them  I  should  not  sleep  if  they  took  her  away,  where  I 
could  not  see,  —  could  not  know.  I  would  sleep,  if  they 
would  let  me  have  her. 

Richard  sat  beside  the  bed  all  night. 

1  slept  because  I  had  promised ;  because  I  knew  I  must. 
But  every  time  I  waked,  there  was  the  little  face,  pale,  but  life- 
like, on  the   pillow,  and  there  was  Richard,  with  his  eyes 
always  on  the  little  face. 

"  She  breathes  better,"  we  said  to  each  other. 

"  She  sleeps  quietly." 

"  Her  lips  are  not  so  white." 

"  Her  nails  are  not  so  blue." 

"I  can't  help  hoping,"  said  Richard,  softly.  "But  — 
Nansie  !  don't  you  go  to  hoping  !  " 

And  then  I  would  shut  my  eyes  to  please  him  ;  saying 
nothing. 

Every  time,  the  lips  had  a  faint  trace  of  better  color.  Every 
time,  the  little  face  looked  somewhat  pinker.  Every  time,  I 
found  Richard  bending  over  to  see  these  things,  or  to  lift  the 
corner  of  the  little  blanket,  gently,  on  which  rested  the  atom 
of  a  hand. 

"  It  isn't  much,  yet ;  it  don't  amount  to  very  much  ;  don't 
you  count  upon  it,  Nansie  ;  but  yet  —  I  can't  help  hoping." 


470  HITHERTO: 

It  was  broad  daylight  when  I  roused  wholly,  after  a  long, 
sweet  nap,  into  which  I  fell  with  Richard's  words  repeating 
themselves,  soothingly,  in  my  brain. 

"  I  can't  help  —  I  can't  help  —  hoping  !  " 

He  sat  there  just  as  he  had  sat  all  night. 

The  dear  little  bit  of  a  face,  warm  with  sleep,  was  almost 
rosy.  There  was  no  blueness  around  the  mouth,  nor  under 
the  little,  tender  nails.  We  looked  up,  together,  from  it. 

"  I  don't  hardly  dare  to  say  it,  Nansie ;  and  you  mustn't 
believe  it,  till  the  doctor  comes.  But  —  that  valve's  shut !  " 

I  suppose  it  was.  I  suppose  the  wonderful  mystery,  be- 
yond our  ken  and  handling,  had  perfected  its  own  office  ;  that 
the  little  beat  and  count  were  established  that  should  be  the 
pulse  of  a  human  life. 

For  it  has  beat  on,  and  we  still  have  our  child. 

"  It  was  so  strange,"  we  said,  after  our  breath  came  freely, 
and  the  da3rs  went  by.  "  All  hung  upon  a  little,  trembling 
membrane,  out  of  our  reach,  that  might  draw  close,  or  that 
might  not.  How  little  we  know  about  the  valves,  —  any  of 
them !  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Nurse  Cryke,  jerking  up  both  elbows  at  once 
as  she  finished  the  baby's  toilette  with  a  little  pin  in  the  laced 
robe-front,  and  drew  all  smoothly  down.  "  But  the  beauty 
of  that  is,  that  we  haven't  got  to  do  with  the  valves.  All  we've 
got  to  do  is  to  go  ahead  and  breathe." 

I  thought  how  all  my  life  I  had  been  feeling  for  the  valves. 

"  What  shall  we  call  her?  "     Richard  asked  of  me. 

"  Why,  there  is  only  one  name !  We  christened  her  all 
that  night.  Hope.  What  a  little  Hope  it  was,  when  you  kept 
telling  me  I  shouldn't !  " 

"And  yet,"  I  said  again,  "it  won't  be  Hope  Devine,  after 
all.  There  never  was  such  a  true  name  as  that." 

"  This  is  true,  too,  and  cheery.  It  tells  the  rest  of  it. 
Hope  Hath  a  way !  " 

One  thing  happened,  a  few  weeks  after,  that  I  can  never 
think  of  without  a  great  throb  of  humble  love,  and  a  great 


A    STOIIY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  471 

shudder  also,  at  the  weight  of  punishment  it  showed  me  might 
have  been. 

Richard  sat  in  our  room,  holding  little  Hope  in  his  arms. 

Nurse  Cryke  had  gone,  and  I  was  busy  at  some  drawers, 
putting  away  and  changing  things,  and  making  cosey,  comfort- 
able arrangements  for  settling  down  to  the  sole  care  of  my 
Little  child. 

It  was  curious  and  touching  to  see  Richard  hold  that  tender 
little  thing  in  his  great,  strong  arms,  and  lift  it  against  his 
broad,  sheltering  bosom.  She  rested  there  like  a  little  wind- 
flower  born  against  a  hill-side. 

He  looked  in  the  tiny  face  as  if  the  fair,  innocent  eyes  and 
the  dawning  smile  told  years  full  of  blessed  stories  to  him 
for  the  time  to  come. 

Suddenly  he  reached  her  out  to  me. 

"  For  the  dear  heaven's  sake  !  Anstiss,  take  the  child  !  I've 
got  something  that  I  must  attend  to  before  I'm  an  hour  older ! 
Don't  wait  tea  for  me.  I'm  going  in  to  New  Oxford,  to  see 
John  Proctor.  He'll  be  married  and  off  to-morrow  !  " 

Five  minutes  after,  he  went  out  of  the  yard,  on  horseback. 
I  could  hear  Swallow's  feet  strike  into  their  swiftest  trot  as 
he  went  down  the  hill. 

After  that  he  could  not  help  answering  my  questions  when 
he  came  home.  I  don't  know  whether  he  might  have  done  it, 
if  lie  had  not  startled  me  so,  and  left  me  in  such  an  as- 
tonishment. ' 

"  I  wanted-  to  get  this,"  he  told  me,  taking  out  a  folded 
paper  from  his  breast-pocket,  long  and  legal-looking. 

He  had  come  into  the  little  tea-room,  and  Martha  had  just 
put  the  tray  on  the  table  for  him,  and  gone  out  again  into  the 
kitchen. 

"  I've  torn  the  signature  off,  and  now  it  must  go  into  the 
fii'e.  —  I  made  my  will,  Nansie,  four  years  ago.  That  is  all. 
When  we  hadn't  any  little  Hope,  you  know." 

Yes,  I  knew.  I  knew  that  the  word  was  true  with  a  sig- 
nificance that  he  did  not  purposely  put  into  it. 

I  reached  my  hand  out,  and  took  it  from  him.  I  would  see 
this  will  of  Richard's,  before  he  burned  it.  I  would  see  what 


472  ,          HITHERTO: 

thought  had  been  in  his  heart  four  jrears  ago  ;  when  he  hadn't 
any,  little  hope ! 

He  let  me  have  it,  though  I  think  it  had  hardly  been  his 
meaning. 

I  took  it  to  the  window,  to  read  it  by  the  waning  light, 
while  he  drank  his  tea. 

I  read  a  new  page  in  his  great,  generous,  silent  life. 

I  saw  where,  in  a  fresh  point,  his  manhood  touched,  as  I 
had  demanded  that  manhood  should,  the  Nature  Divine  ;  the 
Nature  that  can  care  for  the  unthankful  and  the  evil ;  the 
loving,  giving,  and  forgiving  God. 

I  sat  there  still,  in  the  gathering  dusk.  My  tears  fell 
down,  hot,  upon  the  unfolded  paper. 

Richard  turned  round,  present^,  wondering.  Then  he  got 
up  and  came  over  to  me. 

"  Why,  Nansie  !  "  he  said.     "  Little  wifie  !  " 

"  O  Richard ! "  I  sobbed,  with  my  hands  in  his,  and  my 
head  bowed  down  upon  them.  "If  this  had  come  to  me 
then,  —  two  years  ago,  —  I  should  have  gone  away,  like  Judas, 
and  hanged  myself."  - 

All  those  are  old  times,  now ;  to  Hope,  and  little  Hope, 
and  Richard,  and  me.  We  talk  them,  over,  some  of  them, 
when  we  are  together. 

Little  Hope  is  fifteen  now. 

Hope  Upfold  lives  at  South  Side.  Her  husband  built  a 
house  there,  near  the  Copes.  The  neighborhood  is  wider 
now,  and  rich  with  cultured  and  friendly  life.  Hope's  life  has 
widened,  also,  to  its  privilege  and  power.  It  is  large  and 
beautiful. 

She  has  three  glorious  boys,  and  a  fair  little  daughter,  An- 
stiss. 

Grandon  Cope  has  never  married. 

He  is  the  true,  strong,  outgiving  friend  of  us  all. 

I  said  that  people  who  would  tell  of  to-day  should  wait  un- 
til it  had  become  yesterday.  They  may  do  better.  They 
may  wait  till  the  yesterdays,  in  their  turn,  have  become  to- 


A    STORY   OF    YESTERDAYS.  473 

day.  For  that  is  what  they  do.  That  is  what  they  are 
made  for,  and  the  process  of  them.  All  God's  yesterdays 
make  up  his  grand  To-day.  When  the  soul  wakes  to  the 
light  of  his  meaning  for  it,  its  morning  has  begun. 

I  thank  him  that  I  see  mine  high  already  over  the  hori- 
zon. 

For  now,  I  am  up  the  hill ;  and  the  top  is  a  green  table- 
land ;  like  the  grand,  beautiful  reaches  that  lie  beyond  the 
edges  of  wild,  precipitous  western  bluffs,  toward  the  sunset ; 
a  long,  fertile  joy. 

And,  beyond  the  sunset,  are  the  Hills  of  God. 


FAITH  GARTNEY'S  GIRLHOOD, 

By  the  Author  of  "  THE  GAYWORTHYS,"   "  BOYS  AT  CHEQUASSET  ' 
1  vol.%  12mo.    Elegant  fancy  cloth.    Price  $1.75. 


This  charming  story  fills  a  void  long  felt  for  something  for 
a  young  girl,  growing  into  womanhood,  to  read. 

It  depicts  that  bewitching  period  in  life,  lying  between 
FOURTEEN  and  TWENTY,  with  its  noble  aspirations,  and  fresh 
enthusiasms.  It  is  written  by  a  very  accomplished  lady,  and 
is  "  the  best  book  ever  written  for  girls." 

A  lady  of  rare  culture  says,  — 

" '  Faith  Gartney's  Girlhood/  is  a  noble,  good  work,  that 
could  only  have  been  accomplished  by  an  elevated  mind 
united  to  a  chaste,  tender  heart.  From  the  first  page  to  the 
last,  the  impression  is  received  of  a  life  which  has  been 
lived ;  the  characters  are  genuine,  well  drawn,  skilfully 
presented ;  they  are  received  at  once  with  kind,  friendly 
greeting,  and  followed  with  interest,  till  the  last  page  com- 
pels a  reluctant  farewell. 

"  '  The  book  is  written  for  girls,  growing  as  they  grow  to 
womanhood.'  The  story  has  an  interest,  far  beyonr1  that 
found  in  modern  romances  of  the  day,  convej^ed  in  pure, 
refined  language ;  suggestive,  pleasing  thoughts  are  unfolded 
on  every  page ;  the  reflective  and  descriptive  passages  aro 
natural,  simple,  and  exquisitely  finished. 

"  In  these  days,  when  the  tendency  of  society  is  to  educate 
girls  for  heartless,  aimless,  factitious  life,  a  book  like  this  is 
to  be  welcomed  and  gratefully  received.  Wherever  it  is 
read,  it  will  be  retained  as  a  thoughtful,  suggestive  —  if 
silent  —  friend." 


THE   GAYWORTHYS, 

By  the  author  of   "FAITH  GARTNEY'S  GIRLHOOD,"  "Boys  A* 

CHEQUASSET." 


E^~  American  ladies  and  gentlemen  travelling  in  England,  are 
amazed  and  delighted  to  find  "an  American  Novel"  welcomed 
with  such  warmth  and  enthusiasm,  by  the  "cultivated"  and 
"  influential,"  in  all  parts  ot  the  Kingdom. 

No  American  book  since  "Uncle  Tom,"  is  so  universally 
known,  read,  and  talked  about. 

The  London  journals,  without  exception,  have  given  it  a  cor- 
dial welcome.  Read  what  they  say  of  it :  — 

"We  wish  to  write  our  most  appreciative  word  of  this  admirable  and  unexcep- 
tional book.  We  feel  while  we  read  it  that  a  new  master  of  fiction  has  arisen.  . 
.  .  We  can  well  afford  to  wait  a  few  years  now,  if  at  the  end  we  are  to  receive 
from  the  same  pen  a  work  of  such  a  character  aud  mark  as  "  The  Gay_worthys." 

—  Eclectic  Journal. 

"  It  is  impossible  not  to  welcome  so  genial  a  gift.  Nothing  BO  complete  and  del- 
icately beautiful  has  come  to  England  from  America  since  Hawthorne's  death,  and 
there  is  more  of  America  in  'The  Gayworthys  J  than  in  'The  Scarlet  Letter,'  01 
'  The  House  with  Seven  Gables.'  .  .  .  We  know  not  where  so  much  tender 
feeling  and  wholesome  thought  are  to  be  found  together  as  in  this  history  of  the 
fortunes  of  the  Gayworthys." — Header. 

"  '  The  Gayworthys '  comes  to  us  very  seasonably,  for  it  belongs  to  a  class  ol 
novels  wanted  more  and  more  every  day,  yet  daily  growing  scarcer.  We  have, 
therefore,  a  warmer  welcome  for  the  book  before  us  as  being  a  particularly  favora- 
ble specimen  of  its  class.  Without  the  exciting  strength  of  wine,  it  offers  to 
feverish  lips  all  the  grateful  coolness  of  the  unfermented  grape." 

—  Pall  MaU  Gazette. 

"  We  have  no  misgivings  in  promising  our  readers  a  rich  treat  in  '  The  Gay- 
worthys.' .  .  .  '  The  Gayworthys '  will  become  a  great  favorite." 

— Nonconformist. 

"...  The  book  is  crowded  with  epigrams  as  incisive  as  this,  yet  Incisive 
without  malice^  or  bitterness,  cutting  not  so  much  from  the  sharpness  of  the 
thought  as  from  its  weight.  There  is  deep  kindliness  in  the  following  passage,  as 

well  as  deep  insight The  tone  of  the  story,  the  curious  sense  of  peace 

and  kindliness  which  it  produces,  comes  out  well  in  that  extract,  and  the  reader 
quits  it,  feeling  as  lie  would  have  felt  had  he  been  gazing  half  an  hour  on  that 
Bcene — with  more  confidence  alike  in  nature  and  humanity,  less  care  for  the  noisy 
rush  of  city  life,  and  yet  withal  less  fear  of  it.  —  Spectator. 

"  It  is  a  pleasant  book  and  will  make  for  the  producer  friends." 

— Saturday  Review. 

"  We  venture  to  say  no  one  who  begins  the  book  will  leave  it  unfinished,  or  will 
deny  that  great  additions  have  been  made  to  his  circle  of  acquaintance.  He  lias 
been  introduced  to  a  New  England  village,  and  made  acquainted  with  most  of  the 
leading  villagers  in  a  way  which  leaves  the  impression  on  him  thenceforward  that 
he  knows  them  personally,  that  their  fortunes  and  failures,  and  achievements,  and 
misunderstandings  are  matters  of  interest  to  him,  that  he  would  like  to  know  how 
Gershoui  Vos_e  got  on  with  his  farm,  and  if  Joanna  Gair's  marriage  turned  out 
happily,  and  if  '  Say'  Gair  was  as  interesting  as  a  farmer's  wife  as  she  has  been 
as  a  little  child." 


PATIEIGE  STEOIG'S  OUTIMS. 

BY  MRS.  A.  D.  T.  WHITNEY, 

Author  of  "Faitl  Gartney's  Girlliootl,"  "The  Gaywortlirs;'  etc..  etc. 

One  handsome  12mo,  cloth.    Price,  $1.30. 


"PATIENCE   STRONG'S   OUTINGS" 

Is  a  peculiar  and  a  rare  book.  The  beautiful  sympathy  and 
intuition  which  shone  in  her  former  publications  do  not  fail 
her  in  this.  The  ideas  are  of  a  deep  significance,  and  are 
originally  expressed.  We  do  not  not  remember  any  work 
similar  to  it  in  style.  There  is  an  incoherence,  a  disjointed- 
ness  of  phrase,  which  expresses  far  more  than  smoothness 
could.  She  writes  as  we  talk  when  deep  feeling  moves  us 
(reservedly,  with  averted  face,  as  it  were,  treading  with  hesi- 
tation on  such  holy  ground),  groping  for  expression  which 
shall  be  forceful,  yet,  as  far  as  possible,  removed  from  senti- 
mentality or  cant.  She  goes  at  once  to  the  heart  of  life's 
deepest  experiences,  and,  with  a  simplicity  beautiful  as  it  is 
rare,  one's  heart  is  moved  with  the  noblest  impulses,  and 
softened  by  the  tender  pathos  of  her  thoughts.  We  need  not 
recommend  such  a  book.  The  author's  name  is  recommen- 
dation enough. 

PATIENCE  STRONG'S  OUTINGS  are  the  outgoings  of  a  woman 
whose  apparent  opportunities  are  mostly  for  staying  in. 

They  are  the  reachings  of  life  beyond  circumstance  ;  the 
book,  therefore,  is  more  of  suggestion  than  story. 

The  characterization  and  incidents  are  simply  sufficient  to 
connect  and  develope  the  thought. 

That  "  the  world  owes  everybody  a  living "  is  true  in  a 
better  and  higher  sense  than  that  in  which  the  saying  is 
ordinarily  applied  ;  and  in  the  sketch  of  the  simple  doings 
and  happiness  at  Dearwood,  and  at  the  old  house  where 
Patience  Strong  bides  her  time  and  vindicates  her  christen- 
ing, one  sees  something  of  how  the  good  gift  that  life  is 
meant  to  be  for  every  soul,  comes  surely,  even  into  such 
a  quietness  ;  and  that  out  of  the  world  is  got  the  full  and 
best  world's  worth,  by  the  simplest  heart  that  looks  and 
waits  for  it. 


SIMPLICITY  AND  FASCINATION. 


BY   AITOE    BEALE. 

1  vol.,  12mo.     Elegant  fancy  doth.    Price  $1.75. 


It  is  not  often  that  such  a  sound  and  yet  readable  English 
novel  is  republished  in  America. 

The  due  mean  between  flashiness  and  dulness  is  hard  to 
be  attained,  but  we  have  it  here. 

There  is  neither  a  prosy  page  nor  a  sensational  chapter 
in  it. 

It  is  a  nice  book  for  a  clean  hearth  and  an  easy  chair. 

It  is  a  natural,  healthy  book,  written  by  a  living  person, 
about  people  of  flesh  and  blood,  who  might  have  been  our 
neighbors,  and  of  events,  which,  might  happen  to  anybody. 
This  is  a  great  charm  in  a  novel.  This  leaves  a  clean  taste 
in  the  mouth,  and  a  delicious  memory  of  the  feast. 

The  tone  of  it  is  high  and  true,  without  being  obtrusively 
good.  Such  a  book  is  as  great  a  relief  amid  the  sensation- 
al stories  of  the  day,  as  a  quiet  little  bit  of  "  still  life  "  is  to 
the  eye,  after  being  blinded  by  the  glaring  colors  of  the  French 
school. 

This  novel  reproduces  that  exquisite  tone  or  flavor  so  hard 
to  express  which  permeates  true  English  country  life,  and 
gives  to  it  a  peculiar  charm  unlike  any  other,  which  one  hav- 
ing once  seen  and  felt,  lives  as  it  were  under  a  spell,  and 
would  never  willingly  allow  to  fade  from  their  memory. 

Too  much  cannot  be  said  in  praise  of  Simplicity  and  Fas« 
cination. 


MAINSTONE'S  HOUSEKEEPER. 

By  Miss  ELIZA  METEYABD  (SILVERPEN). 
1  vol.,  12mo.    Elegant  fancy  doth.    Price  $  1.75. 


Douglas  Jerrold  gave  this  distinguished  English  authoress 
this  "  nom  deplume,"  and  her  style  has  the  point,  brightness, 
and  delicacy  which  it  suggests. —  This  is  not  a  cook  book  as 
the  title  might  mislead  some  to  suppose,  but  a  fresh,  vigorous, 
powerful  story  of  English  country  life,  full  of  exquisite  pic- 
tures of  rural  scenery,  with  a  plot  which  is  managed  with 
great  skill,  and  a  surprise  kept  constantly  ahead  so  that  from 
the  opening  to  the  close  the  interest  never 'flags.  There  is 
life  in  every  page  and  a  fresh,  delicate,  hearty  sentiment  per- 
vades the  book  that  exhilarates  and  charms  indescribably. 

The  heroine  —  Charlotte  the  housekeeper  —  is  one  of  the 
finest  characters  ever  drawn,  and  merits  unqualified  commen- 
dation. 

As  a  whole,  for  beauty  of  style  and  diction,  passionate  ear- 
nestness, effective  contrasts,  distinctness  of  plot,  unity,  and 
completeness,  this  novel  is  without  a  rival.  It  is  a  "  mid* 
night  darling "  that  Charles  Lamb  would  have  exulted  in, 
•  and  perhaps  the  best  as  yet  produced  from  a  woman's  pen. 


A  Tale  of  the  English  Aristocracy. 

1  vol.,  12mo.    Elegant  fancy  cloth.    Price  $  1.75. 


Three  thousand  eight  hundred  and  seventy-six  new  books 
were  published  in  England  this  last  year,  which  is  about  the 
average  number  of  past  years. 

Thirteen  years  ago  PIQUE  was  first  published  in  London, 
and  up  to  the  present  time,  notwithstanding  the  enormous 
number  of  new  books  issued,  the  effect  of  which  is  to  crowd 
the  old  ones  out  of  sight,  this  remarkable  novel  has  con- 
tinued to  have  a  large  sale. 

This  is  the  strongest  praise  that  can  be  bestowed  on  any 
book.  It  is  not  in  the  least  "  sensational,"  but  relies  solely 
on  its  rare  beauty  of  style  and  truthfulness  to  nature  for  its 
popularity. 

It  has  the  merit  of  being  amusing,  pleasantly  written,  and 
engrossing. 

The  characters  being  high-bred  men  and  women,  are 
charming  companions  for  an  hour's  solitude,  and  one  puts  the 
book  aside  regretfully,  even  as  one  closes  the  eyes  on  a  deli- 
cious vision.  The  American  edition  has  taken  every  one  by 
surprise,  that  so  remarkably  good  a  novel  should  have  so 
long  escaped  attention. 

Every  body  is  charmed  with  it,  and  its  sale  will  continv.a 
for  years  to  come. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-50m-4,'61(B8994s4)444 


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AA    001  224  806   8 


